Shattered Stones
by Bloodsong 13T
Summary: A story about Malcolm and Tommy's relationship, and how screwed up it is. Rebecca had been the cornerstone of their lives. When she'd been so brutally taken away from them, the foundation of their lives couldn't stand on its own. It cracked, its shattered stones unable to support their foundering relationship.
1. The Question

**Arrow: Shattered Stones  
Chapter 1: The Question**

CONTENT:  
Rating: Teen  
Flavor: Drama/Family Drama  
Language: yes  
Violence: some implied violence  
Nudity: none  
Sex: none  
Other: references to drugs, physical child abuse

 _Author's Note:_

This story is about a man and his son, their tragic loss, and how their relationship deteriorates over the course of Tommy's childhood.

Some chapters previously appeared on my LiveJournal as excerpts. See End Notes for Spoilery information on how this story came about.

Detectives Gorem and Eames borrowed from _Law and Order: Criminal Intent_ , a series I discovered via bluecougar57's Law & Order/Torchwood crossovers.

Disclaimer: I don't pretend to know the full and proper details for the workings of child services, child advocates, their interactions with physicians, hospitals, the police force; and/or police procedures. Things happen according to TV reality and/or drama. And Rule of Cool!

* * *

 **The Question**

 _(Tommy is 12; Rebecca has been dead 4 years)_

==#==

"Hang in there, buddy," Malcolm said to his son as the Mercedes sped towards the city. "We'll be there in a minute; you'll be all right."

Tommy whimpered, and Malcolm spared a split second to take his eyes off the road. The boy's face was covered in blood; his left arm lay awkwardly across his stomach, swelled and purpling.

"Tommy? Stay awake. You have to stay awake; come on, now." Malcolm kept his voice level, yet couldn't help the tinge of panic creeping in. He was familiar with these types of injuries: fractured skulls, broken limbs. Concussion was his main concern. "Tommy! Keep your eyes open."

The damnable thing about living in a large country estate was its distance from the city's amenities - like a hospital. Malcolm braked, but didn't stop, cast quick looks for traffic, then made a hard turn onto Route 7. He gunned the V8 engine and passed slower vehicles with the same skillful determination.

The Mercedes squealed to a halt in front of the ER's double doors. Malcolm leapt out and ran to the passenger side, pulled the door open. "Tommy?" The boy's head lolled, his eyes barely open. "I've got you. Come on."

Malcolm bent and scooped his son into his arms. Tommy whimpered in pain. Malcolm tried not to jostle him, but his movements were too rushed, too panicky. He couldn't remember the last time he'd held his son in his arms. He was so heavy.

He left the car there, the door open, keys in the ignition. Who cared? It was just a thing. The ER's automatic doors slid open and he carried Tommy inside. "Somebody help us!"

There was a rush of activity, the raised babble of voices. Someone was shining a penlight into Tommy's eyes; someone was calling for a gurney. Several nurses and aides surrounded Malcolm, speaking in clipped tones, announcing medical statistics to whomever was presumably recording all this information.

"Set him down. Easy now." Several pairs of hands took Malcolm's burden from him. Tommy was wheeled away, swiftly down the corridor to disappear beyond the inner doors.

And suddenly, Malcolm stood alone, in the middle of the wide, stark receiving area, a smear of blood on the breast of his silk shirt. He felt lost and bereft. He sensed eyes upon him. Around the edges of the room, lining the short entry way, sat the dispossessed. Huddled singly or in pairs, clutching wounds, clenched in pain, they stared at him, their eyes like cold stones, observing his misfortune.

He drifted towards the nurse's station. One of them handed a clipboard up onto the high ledge. "Fill this out please, sir."

The pen was a fat-barreled model, emblazoned with the Starling City General name and logo. He gripped it until his knuckles went white so his handwriting didn't come out jagged.

A security guard came in from the outside. "Sir," he called to Malcolm, "you can't leave your car there."

Malcolm blinked, his mind awkwardly trying to process everything - he had to fill out forms, to move his car, and what was happening to his son?

The nurse must have sensed his overwhelmed state for she tugged the clipboard away from him. "It'll be here when you get back," she said gently. Then she shot the security guard a pointed glare.

The guard herded Malcolm to the door. "Just turn right around the corner," he said less brusquely. "Go down into the parking garage."

Malcolm pulled the Mercedes into the first spot he could find and turned the engine off. He gripped the steering wheel a moment as the adrenaline drained from his system. He started shaking in reaction. His breath came in shallow gasps, making him feel lightheaded. He took control, using the breathing techniques he'd learned from his martial arts studies. He had to be strong; he had to get back to his son.

He got out and locked the car. His hands were still shaking, and his knees felt like water, but he took another fortifying breath and walked back into the hospital.

==#==

He finished filling out the forms, and they sent him to Pediatrics on the third floor to wait. The nurse there directed him to a semi-private waiting room, which Malcolm was relieved to find empty. He'd stopped in the men's washroom to get a moistened paper towel to try to wipe away the bloodstain. He knew the shirt was ruined, and he didn't care, but it gave him something to do with his hands, something to focus on.

A young intern came in with an update on Tommy's status.

"When can I see him?" Malcolm interrupted brusquely.

"It will take a while to put the cast on, Mr. Merlyn. Dr. Croft would like you to wait here, please."

"Fine."

The intern left and Malcolm paced. He chucked the wadded-up paper towel in the corner wastebasket.

Several long minutes passed before the door opened again. Malcolm turned quickly as two people came in. One was a heavyset man with grizzled short hair, the other a petite woman with dark blond hair that hung in straight curtains to her jawline. The man had a round face and soft lips that looked as if they smiled easily, but his eyes were like dark stones. The woman's face was severe, her mouth a thin scar line, but her eyes held more gentleness.

"Mr. Merlyn?" she asked.

"Yes. And you are...?" Because they certainly weren't doctors.

The big man pulled his nose out of a file folder and stepped forward, that easy smile springing to his lips. He held out his hand aggressively and Malcolm took it. "I'm detective Gorem, and this is Detective Eames. Mr. Merlyn, what happened to your son?"

"He fell down the back steps." Malcolm got a bad feeling as he disengaged from the detective's handshake. "Why? Why are you here asking about that?"

The woman, Eames, said, "Child services asked us to come over here. Your son claims you beat him."

"What?" He had to laugh, though without mirth. "That is _not_ what happened." He looked at each detective in turn. Their faces remained impassive, neutral, yet tinged with doubt.

Gorem moved to a chair, slapping the folder down on the table. He beckoned and Malcolm went closer. "Have a seat, Mr. Merlyn." He spoke with a broken cadence, ever so slightly off. It left Malcolm unbalanced when he switched to a solid direct question. "Do you have any idea why your son would say such a thing?"

Malcolm rubbed his face. Tommy. _Dammit!_ He didn't want to sit down, but he did so anyway to make the detectives more relaxed. Eames remained standing by the door, observing silently. "We had an argument."

"Did you raise your voice?"

"Yes."

"So you yelled at your son."

"And he yelled back," Malcolm said edgily.

"Did you hit him?"

"No."

Gorem tipped his head like an inquisitive dog. "No, you didn't yell, lose your temper... strike out at him?"

"No," Malcolm repeated firmly.

The detective pulled a polaroid photo from the folder. "This was taken just before Tommy's arm was set. You see these bruises here?" He pointed out the purplish lines above the elbow as if Malcolm were an idiot. "These are finger marks."

Malcolm tried not to grind his teeth. At least not audibly. "I know that."

"So this is where you grabbed him."

"Yes, it is."

"So..." Gorem bobbed his head side to side, his keen eyes regarding Malcolm. "What? You yelled... he didn't listen. So you grabbed him to _make_ him listen."

There was no use denying it. "Yes."

"Did you shake him?" Eames asked from her post by the door. "Jerk on his arm to make him mind you?"

"No."

"Did you strike him with your other hand?"

"No!" Malcolm didn't like being beset from both sides. "I grabbed his arm. When he pulled away, he lost his balance and fell."

The two shared a look. Malcolm kept a tight lid on his temper. Gorem peered into the file again. "Mr. Merlyn, according to Tommy's medical records, it was a couple months ago..." He shifted the papers until he found his place. "Tommy complained of a pain in his arm, and the school nurse found he had a sprained wrist." He looked up with intense interest. "Do you know how that happened?"

 _"Tommy, you need to work harder at school. These grades are unacceptable."_

 _"I don't care!"_

 _"You should care. This is important to your future."_

 _"What future?"_

 _"Your whole life that's ahead of you, Tommy. Do you think your mother would want you to throw it away like this?"_

 _"She doesn't care - she's_ dead! _"_

 _Malcolm's vision flashed white. The next thing he knew, he had Tommy's arm in his hand, twisting, and yanking his son to him as he snarled down, "Don't you_ ever _speak that way about your mother!"_

 _Tommy's eyes looked up at him, watering. But his face remained cold, impassive, his jaw clenched. He uttered not a sound._

"No," Malcolm said, his throat dry. "I had no idea he was hurt. It was an accident."

"An accident?" Eames repeated. "And did you 'accidentally' push him down the stairs?"

"No!" Malcolm stood, putting his back to the table. "I told you, he fell!"

The detectives shared another one of those looks. Gorem leaned forward. "Mr. Merlyn, do you know what it means when a child is always having accidents and falling down?"

== _X_ ==

* * *

 _End Notes:_

SPOILERS:

This story came about when my Brain tried to answer the question: "Did Malcolm Merlyn ever beat his son?" Please note, the story doesn't actually answer that question. Of course, you already know the answer. You _do_. If you just think about it long enough...!


	2. The Investigation

**Chapter 2: The Investigation**

CONTENT:  
Rating: Teen  
Flavor: Drama/Family Drama  
Language: yes  
Violence: some implied violence  
Nudity: none  
Sex: none  
Other: references to drugs, physical child abuse

* * *

 _"Mr. Merlyn, do you know what it means when a child is always having accidents and falling down?"_

* * *

 **The Investigation**

 _(Tommy is 12; Rebecca has been dead 4 years)_

Malcolm's blood ran cold. He turned, keeping both detectives in sight, like a wolf cornered by a pack of dogs. "That is _not_ what is going on here! I demand to see my son!"

Eames said, "Well, that's not going to happen until we determine you're not a danger to him." She flicked her head, tossing her hair back from her eyes, giving him a clear view of the steel determination in them.

"Why don't you sit back down, Mr. Merlyn," Gorem said, adopting his deceptively bumbling tone. He was like a bear, Malcolm realized; giving nothing away of what he was thinking, remaining friendly and harmless-looking until he was ready to lash out.

"I don't want to sit down," he growled. "I want to know how badly my son is hurt. I want to talk to Dr. Croft."

"And we understand that," Gorem soothed. "But you understand, we have to investigate."

"Investigate what? I told you what happened. You heard Tommy's side of the story, or so I presume. Have you actually spoken to him?"

Eames said, "Not yet. Dr. Croft needs to finish treating him."

Malcolm spread his hands. "Well, it's only Tommy's word against mine."

"Are you saying we shouldn't believe him?" Eames asked pointedly. "Because he's a child? And children lie? Making up things all the time?"

Malcolm raked a hand back through his hair. He couldn't believe this was happening. When he got ahold of Tommy...! "That's not what I'm saying. I'm saying... Look,

I know what this sounds like - I know what it _looks_ like. But I did not beat my son. I didn't push him down the steps!"

"Why would he lie?" Gorem asked in an annoyingly neutral tone.

Malcolm took a deep breath, knowing what this would sound like, too. "Tommy... We haven't been getting along. He's charging headlong into his rebellious teens, and he knew saying such a thing would hurt me." He lowered his head. They weren't going to buy this.

Indeed, the detectives shared another look, on that Malcolm interpreted as stark disbelief. Then Gorem turned to him. "We'd like to see where this incident took place, if that's all right with you."

Alarm bells went off in Malcolm's mind. He should have a lawyer; they needed a warrant. He pursed his lips to keep from grimacing, and swiftly weighed his options. Refusing would only look more suspicious. Besides, he had nothing to hide. "Yes, of course." He gave them the address.

==#==

Malcolm didn't know the protocol in such situations, so he waited for the detectives outside. Hid didn't want them to suspect he'd tampered with any evidence.

He unlocked the door and led Gorem and Eames inside, through the foyer, down the hall, and into the large dining room. A glass-topped mahogany table dominated the area in front of the French doors and floor-to-ceiling windows. Tommy's backpack and jacket were gone, the chair straightened to military precision.

"Where did the incident occur?" Gorem asked, his oval face blank.

"Out here, on the back porch."

The back porch was a massive edifice of dressed colonial stone. Slate lined the eight by sixteen floor, with massive planters built into the stone wall that housed yew trees, trimmed and tamed like Western bonsai.

Malcolm and the detectives walked the few paces to the broad steps that led down to the back lawn. They were flanked by thick stone rails.

This had been Tommy's castle parapet when he'd been a little boy.

Gorem ambled down the steps. "This is where he fell?"

"Yes."

The detective peered at the stone bannister, where Malcolm could see a wet spot that definitely was not blood. "It looks clean."

"The housekeeper must have...," Malcolm explained lamely.

"Can we speak to her?" Eames asked, while Detective Gorem continued to look around on the stone steps.

"Of course." Malcolm led her back inside and called for Vivienne.

"Vivienne, did you clean up on the porch?" he asked her when she appeared.

"Yes," she said, wringing her hands. "Poor Tommy, is he all right?"

"The doctors are taking care of him," Malcolm answered her. "This is Detective Eames. She'd like to ask you a few questions about the accident."

Vivienne's eyes widened, but she composed herself and nodded to the detective.

Eames smiled softly and said, "Thank you for agreeing to talk with us. Perhaps we could get a glass of water and talk in the kitchen?"

As if on cue, Detective Gorem poked his head in the door and asked, "Mr. Merlyn, can you show me exactly what happened?"

"Of course," he replied, a wry twist to his lips at the maneuvering. Vivienne caught his eye as he began to turn. She looked uncertain. "Please help the detectives with whatever they need," he told her. She nodded.

Malcolm joined Gorem on the porch.

"Tommy fell down, here?" the bearlike man asked, looking down the steps.

"Yes."

"This would be after you grabbed his arm."

"Yes."

Gorem turned to Malcolm. "Why did you do that?"

"I... we were arguing. He turned away, to leave."

 _"Tommy, what is this? Is this marijuana?"_

 _"You went through my stuff?"_

 _"That is not the point!"_

 _"You can't just pry into my personal life, Dad! As if you care!"_

 _"Of course I care! Where did you get this? Have you been smoking pot?"_

 _"You don't care about me, you just want to run my whole life so you don't look bad."_

 _"That is not-!"_

 _"Go to Hell, Dad!"_

 _"TOMMY!"_

Gorem asked, "What were you arguing about?"

"I'd rather not say."

The detective just looked at him, with that bland expression, those hooded eyes. Judgemental eyes.

Malcolm squirmed slightly. What was going through the detective's mind? Nothing good. "It's... I... I don't want him to get into trouble. I found, well, a joint in his jacket pocket," he confessed.

"You found marijuana in his possession."

Malcolm grimaced at the legalese. "In his jacket. I don't know where he got it."

"You thought he was smoking pot."

"I don't know!"

"But you found this joint and got into an argument over it." Gorem tipped his head slightly, his eyes trying to drill through Malcolm's facade.

"I got upset."

"You yelled at him."

Malcolm did _not_ like this man putting words in his mouth, but the damnable thing was, he couldn't deny them. "I confronted him about it."

"Here?"

"No, inside." Malcolm nodded at the dining room. "He came out here."

"To get away from you."

 _Dammit!_ "Yes."

"So you chased him out here and grabbed him."

"I thought you wanted me to tell you what happened - not for me to stand here and listen to you dictate it to me!" Malcolm snapped, past the end of his patience.

"Sorry," Gorem said, in that same neutral tone, without contrition. "Occupational hazard. We... deduce things."

Malcolm took a steadying breath. "Yes, I did grab his arm, to try to make him stop and talk to me. He... he pulled away, too hard." Malcolm swallowed, replaying the scene in his mind. "I guess his feet got tangled up and he tripped and fell down the stairs."

"Can you show me? Where was he standing when you grabbed him?"

"Well, here."

Gorem shuffled into place, nudging Malcolm back. "So he was facing this way? Can you grab me like you grabbed him?"

"You're rather larger than he is." Malcolm knew better, but could not resist the snide comment.

Gorem seemed unfazed. "Just so I can get an idea."

Malcolm gripped him above the elbow, none too hard.

"And you pulled him back?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure you didn't unconsciously push him forward?"

"I'm sure!" Malcolm snapped. "I tried to get him to face me, this way." He was clearly standing behind the man's elbow. He tugged in demonstration.

Gorem half turned. "Then what?"

"I told you, he yanked away."

The detective broke swiftly from his grasp, and Malcolm opened his hand before he could reflexively grab the man. Now if the detective only pitched himself down the steps and cracked his skull, that would be the end of that.

But Gorem only turned, still placid, like that circus bear. "So he yanked away too hard, his feet got tangled together..." He took a shuffle step forward. "And then he fell." He mimed a sort of dive. "This way?"

"Yes."

"Can you describe to me exactly how he fell? Show me."

"He fell at this angle." Now Malcolm crowded the detective, forcing him to move down the steps. "He hit his head, here." He pointed at the damp spot, but Gorem didn't seem interested in looking at the stone, he only stared at Malcolm. "And then fell forward, down here."

"He couldn't catch himself?"

"That's how he broke his arm."

"I see," was all the detective said, in that infuriating bland tone. He then fished out a notepad and pen, and began scribbling notes.

Malcolm waited, patiently, or tried to. He glanced back up the steps, trying to give the detective a hint to move back inside. Wouldn't it be easier to take notes on the dining room table?

"After he fell," Gorem finally asked, still writing, "what did you do?"

"Well, I... panicked, basically. I came down the steps to check on him. He was crying... blood all over his face. I- I picked him up, put him in the car, and drove like a madman for the hospital."

"You didn't think to call 911?"

"I didn't want to wait for an ambulance to get out here, my son was _bleeding_."

Gorem nodded, dully, Then he stopped and looked up at Malcolm. "And where is this joint you were arguing over? Did your housekeeper pick it up?"

Malcolm's face heated in guilty anger. "No, I had it. I put it in my pocket - it must have been by reflex - and then I flushed it."

"Was this all before you picked up your bleeding son and carried him to the car?"

"Of course not! It was at the hospital. While I was in the wash room."

Gorem just nodded again, writing, writing, writing... And Malcolm prayed for patience.

==#==

Alex Eames followed the housekeeper to the kitchen, reminding herself that a hallway was just a hallway, no matter how grand; a kitchen was just a kitchen, no matter how large and gleaming; and a man was just a man, no matter how rich.

Vivienne got her a glass of water, and she thanked the woman. She took a sip and said, "Would you like to sit down?" They moved to the corner of the kitchen table.

Eames smiled at the woman to put her at ease. "How long have you been working for Mr. Merlyn?"

She didn't look at ease. "Ten years," she replied.

Quite some time to build up loyalty. But would she be more loyal to her employer, or the child that had been in her care for so long?

"Do you know what happened this morning?"

"Tommy was hurt." Her face creased in concern. "He is all right, isn't he?"

"He has a broken arm and a concussion," Eames informed her. "Did you see how it happened?"

Vivienne shook her head.

"Did you hear anything? Any yelling?"

Another head shake. "I was in the front wing."

An entirely different place in the mansion that probably contained room for three or four modest houses. "But you knew Tommy Merlyn was hurt."

"I saw them leave. It was terrible - I was so afraid for him."

"And Mr. Merlyn? How did he seem?"

"I have never seen him so pale, so afraid."

Still, a man could break his son's arm one moment and feel panic over it the next. Eames leaned on the table, creating a closer, more confidential space between them.

"Vivienne, how do Mr. Merlyn and Tommy usually get along?"

The housekeeper shifted, glancing away uncomfortably. "Things have been... hard. Since they lost Mrs. Merlyn. Mr. Merlyn hasn't been the same."

Missing his wife and taking it out on his kid. Eames worked on keeping her expression neutral.

"Tommy...," Vivienne continued, "is a quiet boy. But headstrong, sometimes." She tipped her head, questioning if Eames understood, and Eames nodded.

"Did you ever notice any strange bruises on him?"

"N-No..." Her brow creased.

"Never?"

"No, he plays outside. Boys..." She made a vague gesture with her hand. "Play rough."

"So any bruises he had could be explained by that?"

"He used to get in fights, when... when his mother passed away. The other children..." She pinched her lips in disapproval. "Tommy was a sensitive child."

"Does Mr. Merlyn lose his temper often?"

"Oh, no." Vivienne looked directly at her. "Mr. Merlyn never loses his temper. That man has the patience of a saint."

Interesting, and unexpected. Then again, Eames mused, it was always those with the longest fuse that blew up most violently. She would have to compare notes with Bobby, later.

For now, she steered the interview towards more practical matters, liked the wiped crime scene.

== _X_ ==


	3. The Jury

**Chapter 3: The Jury**

CONTENT:  
Rating: Teen  
Flavor: Drama/Family Drama  
Language: yes  
Violence: some implied violence  
Nudity: none  
Sex: none  
Other: references to drugs, physical child abuse

* * *

 _"Things have been... hard. Since they lost Mrs. Merlyn. Mr. Merlyn hasn't been the same."_

 _Missing his wife and taking it out on his kid. Eames worked on keeping her expression neutral._

 _"Tommy...," Vivienne continued, "is a quiet boy. But headstrong, sometimes." She tipped her head, questioning if Eames understood, and Eames nodded._

 _"Did you ever notice any strange bruises on him?"_

 _"N-No..." Her brow creased._

 _"Never?"_

 _"No, he plays outside. Boys..." She made a vague gesture with her hand. "Play rough."_

 _"So any bruises he had could be explained by that?"_

 _"He used to get in fights, when... when his mother passed away. The other children..." She pinched her lips in disapproval. "Tommy was a sensitive child."_

 _"Does Mr. Merlyn lose his temper often?"_

 _"Oh, no." Vivienne looked directly at her. "Mr. Merlyn never loses his temper. That man has the patience of a saint._ "

* * *

 **The Jury**

 _(Tommy is 12; Rebecca has been dead 4 years)_

Malcolm was not allowed to see his son without a child advocate present, and the two detectives lurking behind the two-way mirror in the pediatrics observation room. They'd introduced him to the advocate, a small, iron grey woman with thick-rimmed glasses. He'd tried to maintain a modicum of decency, thanking her for her service.

She'd peered at him over the rim of her glasses and icily informed him, "I'm not here to help you."

Great, Malcolm scoffed quietly to himself. He'd already been judged guilty.

He sat in the uncomfortable chair and took a minute to look at his son. Tommy sat in his sullen slouch, shock of dark hair pushed back by the bandages around his head. His nose was a blotchy reddish-purple mess, his eyes puffy and swollen, cast down towards the floor. Bandages circled his arms; the left one was in a cast tucked up against his thin chest.

If anybody had done this deliberately to his boy, he'd kill them. Yet all the strangers in this room, and the next, all thought _he'd_ done it. Damnable irony.

Silence stretched thin. His boy didn't look at him.

Finally, Malcolm was able to push aside his anger and focus on his son. Quietly, he asked, "Why are you doing this, Tommy?"

His son's eyes flicked up, around the room. Back down.

"Do you want to hurt me? Is that it?" He paused, but no answers were forthcoming. "To humiliate me? So that everywhere I go, people will look at me and think, 'There goes that man who beats his son'? 'That smug bastard, he doesn't deserve the life he leads'?" He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "You want me to be branded with this crime?" Malcolm took a breath, because he began to lose his temper again.

Tommy glanced towards the advocate. Perhaps wondering if he'd put up with enough.

"Congratulations, Tommy," Malcolm said, drawing his son's attention. "You did hurt me."

Tommy chewed at the inside of his lip. Perhaps to hide a smile? Oh, but Malcolm wasn't finished.

"But did you think how you would hurt yourself?"

Smug lip-chewing turned into a worried twitch.

"If you pursue this, they'll take you away and put you in the foster care system. Do you think you'd be happy there? Shifted from house to house, lost in the crowd; no private room, no housekeeper to cook and clean for you, no video games on your home entertainment center-"

"Mr. Merlyn!" the advocate scolded vehemently.

He turned on her. "Am I wrong?"

She had nothing to say to that.

"Is that really what you want, Tommy?"

"No."

"Just tell them the truth, please."

The advocate glared venom at him over pinched lips.

He stood, sick of her pre-judgements. "The doctor wants to keep you overnight for observation. You can make up your mind, and I can pick you up tomorrow. Or not." These final words came out pained. He wanted to say so much more to his son. To find out what Tommy hated him for this time. To beg him to come home, to be well, to stop hurting. But these people, these judges, they would only see him trying to influence Tommy's decision.

He choked down his emotion. Everything would work out. He had to believe that.

He turned and left.

==#==

Miss Killiway stood and came to Tommy after his dad walked out. "Don't you worry; we will work things out. We can get you help, even help for your father. Don't be afraid."

"I just want to lie down," he said, playing his injured boy card.

"Of course, dear."

The nurses took him to his room, helped him get ready for bed. He really was tired, and achey. They gave him more medicine.

"Don't I have to stay awake?" he asked. He had a concussion, didn't he? That's what they always did on TV.

"No, dear. You need to rest. We'll be keeping an eye on you. Don't worry."

That was easy for her to say. He was screwed, no matter what he told them tomorrow. He'd said his dad beat him. Now he should change his story? Would they believe him? Would he be in trouble for lying? Or what if he stuck to his story? He'd heard about foster care on the TV, too. He'd be a nobody, a poor person. Some kind of orphan. How would he get money? What did orphans do when no one wanted them?

His head began to hurt again, worse.

Then his door opened, and a fat guy in a cheap suit came in.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Tommy, my name is Bobby Gorem. I'm one of the detectives investigating your injuries."

 _Oh, shit!_ Tommy thought. "Am I in trouble?"

The detective smiled and ambled over to the bedside. "Why would you think you're in trouble?" He lowered himself into the chair, the slight smile still on his face.

 _Shit!_ Of course he was in trouble. His dad would kill him. They'd called the cops? _Shit! Shit! Shit!_

"Son," the detective said in a warm, gentle voice," you're not going to be in trouble. Why don't you tell me what really happened?"

"It's, um... We... I mean, me and my dad... Uh, we got in an argument. And I fell down the back steps."

"You fell? Just like that?"

"Well..." Tommy licked his lips. "No. Uh, I mean, he-he grabbed me, and I pulled away. Th-That's when I fell." He swallowed.

"You pulled away."

"Yeah."

"He didn't push you?"

"No."

The detective didn't say anything. He took out a little notebook and flipped through it, a studious frown on his face.

Tommy sweated under his bandages.

"What were you arguing about?" the detective asked, not looking up.

"School... stuff."

"Is school where you got the pot from?"

 _Oh, shit!_ "Uh, th-that wasn't mine."

"Why did you tell the doctors your father had beaten you?"

This missile out of left field caught Tommy off balance. "I dunno. I... was angry, I guess."

The detective looked up from his notes. "About what?"

"Just... stuff."

"Abusive stuff?"

"No, just... My dad doesn't get me, you know? He doesn't get I'm not him. I can't do stuff like him, I can't _be_ like him." Tommy sighed. "He gets mad. And I just... want a break."

"I understand, son. It's going to be all right. You should rest now."

==#==

Eames looked up from her grilled chicken sandwich. "You bought that?" she asked her partner.

Bobby gulped his soda. "Yeah. He was angry, he said it to get back at his dad. For typical pre-teen stuff, as far as I can tell."

Eames shook her head. "Come on, Bobby. You saw how Merlyn manipulated him, threatening him with that foster care horror story if he didn't change his tune about 'the truth.'"

"Well, we can take another run at him, if you want. A formal interview."

"You mean a Bobby Gorem psychological special?"

He quirked his brows over his burger.

Eames winced. "You know, I hate those."

"But it gets results."

She nodded. "Let's stick it to him, then."

== _X_ ==


	4. The Interrogation

**Chapter 4: The Interrogation**

CONTENT:  
Rating: Teen  
Flavor: Drama/Family Drama  
Language: yes  
Violence: some implied violence  
Nudity: none  
Sex: referenced  
Other: references to drugs, physical child abuse

 _Author's Note:_

This contains the scene I lost and had to re-write. :/

* * *

 _"... He was angry, he said it to get back at his dad. For typical pre-teen stuff, as far as I can tell."_

 _Eames shook her head. "Come on, Bobby. You saw how Merlyn manipulated him, threatening him with that foster care horror story if he didn't change his tune about 'the truth.'"_

 _"Well, we can take another run at him, if you want. A formal interview."_

 _"You mean a Bobby Gorem psychological special?"_

 _He quirked his brows over his burger._

 _Eames winced. "You know, I hate those."_

 _"But it gets results."_

 _She nodded. "Let's stick it to him, then."_

* * *

 **The Interrogation**

 _(Tommy is 12; Rebecca has been dead 4 years)_

The housekeeper answered the door. "We're here to see Mr. Merlyn," Eames announced.

"Of course, detectives. Please come in." She led them down the hall, away from the dining room where they'd been before. Through another archway and a pair of double doors lay a living room, or perhaps the proverbial drawing room; one designed for meeting guests. There were arm chairs and a settee around a low coffee table. One wall held bookshelves, another a fireplace, clean and empty in this season. Tasteful crystal decorations dotted the room, and a row of framed photographs lined the mantel. "Mr. Merlyn, the detectives are here."

Merlyn turned from the far window and came to greet them. He was impeccably attired in slacks and suit jacket, without a tie, which must be his idea of casual wear.

"Thank you for seeing us," Eames said politely.

"Of course. Please, have a seat."

She headed to take the chair facing the settee. Bobby started to follow, but stopped short as Merlyn turned to join them. "Could I get something to drink?" her partner asked abruptly. "What's your housekeeper's name?"

"Vivienne," Merlyn supplied.

"Hey, Vivienne!" Gorem yelled, then moved back to the doorway. "Hey, could I get a soda or something cold? Bottled water?"

"Certainly, Mr. Gorem." She hovered a moment, peering uncertainly through the doorway past Bobby.

Merlyn turned to Eames. "Anything for you, detective?"

"No, thank you."

He nodded to the housekeeper, who disappeared towards the kitchen. The detectives took their seats, at right angles to each other, leaving Merlyn to sit across from Eames. She opened her notebook and rested it on one knee. Gorem made a show of settling into his seat, unbuttoning his own suit jacket, which was several pay grades below Merlyn's. He flapped his tie in an effort to settle it, then squirmed in his seat to get his notebook out of his pocket.

Bobby Gorem had a knack for... being irritating. It was a psychological ploy, to get the subject rattled, unnerve them enough to get uptight and impatient. It had even resulted in several black eyes for Bobby.

Eames, used to his antics, tried to remain calmly oblivious to them.

"Well, Mr. Merlyn," Gorem started affably. "Tell us about Tommy. What kind of kid is he?"

"He''s... his own person," Merlyn said with a shrug, a slight downturn of his mouth.

"So he's rebellious."

Vivienne entered and brought Gorem a bottle of sparkling water. He thanked her absently, and she withdrew. While Merlyn was talking, Gorem twisted open the top and tossed it down on the coffee table where it skittered several inches.

"Tommy hasn't reached his teens yet, but he's more than eager to express his independence." Merlyn's eyes glinted a moment, as if he wanted to say something to the detective, but refrained. A slight hitch in his voice let Eames know how much the slob ploy had affected him.

"You have a hard time handling him," Gorem said. He tipped back the bottle, gulping water. Then he set it down on the polished wood of the coffee table, ignoring the coasters available. Eames suppressed a wince herself. Bobby started writing in his notebook.

"I wouldn't say that," Merlyn answered.

"How are his grades in school?" Eames asked him. She knew Tommy was barely squeaking by, but she wanted to know his father's opinion on that.

Merlyn looked down, hiding his disappointment. "He could do better if he applied himself."

Gorem said, "So he's lazy and rebellious. You must have a tough time handling him since your wife died." Eames saw a flash of pain cross Merlyn's face. Gorem kept his eyes on his notes and went on, heedless. "I mean, a guy like you, being so busy and all, trying to raise a kid on your own."

"My wife was murdered," the businessman answered with chilling dispassion. "Tommy and I... we didn't take it well. It hit us hard."

"Tommy's hard to handle. He needs some pretty strong discipline."

"Detective, are you going to turn everything I say into some sort of damning negative statement?" Now Merlyn's voice showed heat.

"No, I'm just painting a picture I see, here." Gorem stood. "I'm seeing a single dad, working hard at success, and a kid who's not living up to his full potential. Sounds like he's a big disappointment, and needs to straighten up."

Bobby was a hefty guy. Having him stand over you could be intimidating. Merlyn was not immune to the effect. He got up out of his seat and retreated to the fireplace. "Why don't you just come out and ask me if I beat my son?" he growled. "And while you're at it, why don't you fill in the answer with 'yes'?"

"Are you saying you did?"

"No!"

"Did you spank him, when he was little?"

"No, we never did that."

"How did you discipline him?" Eames asked.

"We told him sternly what he did wrong and that we were disappointed," Merlyn explained, calming a bit. "We rarely had to punish him, which we did by withholding toys or treats. He was always such a good boy." His voice faded, remembering a ghost of the past.

Eames had to feel for the guy. She let Bobby take control again, to dig deeper as was needed.

"Then with your wife out of the picture, you had to resort to harsher punishment?"

"No!"

"No, never?" Gorem pushed, cocking his head. "Not even a swat when he's way out of line? Or - well, we know you grab him."

Merlyn bristled. "I told you, we were arguing."

"About the possession of marijuana."

Eames added, "You were angry at him."

"Yes, I was angry," Merlyn confessed. "I was afraid he was getting into drugs. I was angry at myself for not knowing about it, for not being there to see, or-or to teach him better." He turned away, looked for solace in the family photos.

Eames consulted her notes. "Mr. Merlyn, you described your relationship with Tommy as 'strained.' Can you explain why that is?"

"No. Not exactly." He looked back to them. "Tommy was hit hard by his mother's death."

"According to school records, he got into a lot of fights."

"The other children... I told you, Tommy was hit hard. He loved his mother. He had trouble adjusting."

Gorem asked, "And you?"

"Yes." Merlyn's eyes returned to the image of a smiling young woman. "I loved her dearly. I was... I wasn't myself, either."

"You were lonely," Gorem said softly, Despite his bulk, he could move quietly when he wanted to. He eased closer behind Merlyn. "Your wife was very beautiful. You haven't found another woman, but maybe you don't need to." Another step, and he cocked his head to view the photographs. "Tommy is a beautiful little boy. He looks a lot like his mother, doesn't he? I can see it in his eyes, his mouth. A boy his age could satisfy a lot of needs a man has. Soft and warm. No one would blame you; it's natural." He shrugged. "Hell, if I had a boy like him, I wouldn't be able to resist."

Eames' throat tightened in disgust, and her fingers clenched on her pen in anticipation of her partner getting punched in the face.

==#==

Molten lava surged in Malcolm's gut at the detective's insinuation, his blatant perversity. He had every right to lash out, to protect his family - but no. They were the police. He tamped down his rage and turned to the man, so temptingly within striking range. Icily, he said, "I don't know what type of people you're accustomed to dealing with, detective, but I find your attitude reprehensible. And," he added, unable to resist at least a verbal strike, "I'm not sure it's appropriate for you to be working with the child services department."

Detective Gorem flinched back, a look of - was that surprise? - on his face. His demeanor instantly shifted to one of submissive contrition. "I apologize, Mr. Merlyn." He lowered his head. "Truly, I am sorry."

His partner rose from her seat. "Thank you, Mr. Merlyn," she said coolly, as if nothing untoward had happened. "I believe this concludes our interview."

"That's it?" Malcolm sensed something amiss. "What about my son?"

"Once we make our report," Gorem said, "you will be able to pick him up from the hospital."

"And this investigation is over?"

"Yes. We didn't find any evidence of an abusive situation here. And Tommy already said he lied to the doctor."

Malcolm frowned. They already knew? He stepped in front of the detective as he tried to leave. "I don't want you anywhere near my son," he growled. "Don't think this is the end of it."

Gorem backed down, raising his hands defensively. "Mr. Merlyn, I assure you, I did not mean what I said just then. I was only trying to get you riled up."

"Why?"

"To see how you would react."

Malcolm's brain flashed through deductions. A test! "You wanted to see if I had any 'anger management issues.'"

The detective had the wherewithal to look sheepish. "Again, I apologize. You are correct in your assumption about the kind of people I sometimes have to deal with."

Thinking it over, Malcolm realized the sorts of things the detective had to deal with on a daily basis. He felt mollified by Gorem's honest admittance, as well. "I understand."

Gorem reached into his inner pocket. "I also understand how difficult it can be. Dealing with grief, dealing with children dealing with grief, dealing with difficult topics like drugs." He handed Malcolm his card. "Please, I know several counselors and support groups. If you ever need anything, for you or your son, you can always call me."

"Thank you, detective," Malcolm said politely, doubting he would ever need such a thing. He dropped it into his pocket.

==#==

Malcolm drove Tommy home, as he'd driven him to the hospital. He wanted to have time to have a private talk with his son, but he didn't know how to start. Tommy stared out the passenger window, giving no indication what he was thinking or planning. Or feeling. An apology or at least an explanation would have been too much to expect.

Finally, free of the streets of the city, Malcolm broke the silence. "Tommy, I'm not your enemy. I'm your father. I love you, and I want the best life for you - I want you to be happy."

"You want what you think is the best life for me. Not what I want."

"What do you want?" he asked with genuine interest.

"I want to live my own life," Tommy said, still not looking over at him.

Which was no kind of answer. Malcolm tried to remember his youth, his outlook on life when he was Tommy's age. "I understand that," he said. Like all fledglings, Tommy wanted his freedom, to make his own choices to find is own way. "And I will help you as best I can. But there are certain fundamental truths to life. People who study, who have discipline, are better able to reach their goals. Drug addicts do not have happy, fulfilling lives."

"Oh come on! It was one little joint! I wasn't going to smoke it."

"Why did you have it? Who gave it to you?"

"Look, a buncha kids had some. I took one to look cool, okay?"

That was... feasible. "All right."

Tommy sighed. "You don't believe me."

"I'm sorry," He wanted to, but dammit! "Tommy, I want us to have an open and honest relationship. I want you to feel you can talk to me, about anything."

Silence.

Malcolm took a breath. "I'll work on being less judgmental and more helpful, if you just give me a chance." He glanced at his passenger. "Deal?"

"Okay."

He found that as believable as Tommy had found his earlier agreement. He rolled his lips inside his mouth, trying to figure out how to fix this mess. Just one step. "What one thing can I do, to be a better father to you?"

Tommy seemed to think it over. His uninjured hand tapped his leg. Then he said, "You know, I've been on my own for so long, the best thing you can do is butt out."

Malolm was cut to the heart by Tommy's rejection, the harrowing his son had put him through. He strugled to keep all expression from his face. He didn't trust his voice, so he remained silent.

All he wanted was to help his son, ease his pain, and all Tommy wanted to do was hurt him.

Where had his little boy gone? The one who loved and laughed and played with him? Who looked up to him with shining eyes of admiration?

Rebecca had been the cornerstone of their lives. When she'd been so brutally taken away from them, the foundation of their lives couldn't stand on its own. It cracked, its shattered stones unable to support their foundering relationship.

== _X_ ==


	5. Boys Don't Cry

**Chapter 5: Boys Don't Cry**

CONTENT:  
Rating: Teen  
Flavor: Drama/Family Drama  
Language: yes  
Violence: fistfight, implied  
Nudity: none  
Sex: none  
Other: references to alcohol, physical child abuse, bullying

 _Author's Note:_

WARNING: bring tissues. Don't say I didn't warn you.

This was written years ago, so it does not fit into canon as it has evolved today. It still holds with my concept of back-story for _Green & Black_ and can be considered canon for that AU.

* * *

 _Rebecca had been the cornerstone of their lives. When she'd been so brutally taken away from them, the foundation of their lives couldn't stand on its own. It cracked, its shattered stones unable to support their foundering relationship._

* * *

 **Boys Don't Cry**

 _(Tommy is 8. Rebecca has been dead 2 weeks.)_

"Hey, hey Tommy! Lost his mommy!"

"Shut up, Brad!"

"You gonna make me, loser?"

"Shut up!"

"Naw, he's just going to cry again. Cry, baby, cry!"

"Shut up! _Shut up! Shut up!_ "

==#==

" _Mr. Merlyn, you need to go pick up your son. He's been fighting again._ " The office secretary did nothing to mask the disapproval in her voice.

"I'll send someone to pick him up." Malcolm broke the connection before she could sneer at his privileged rich man's inadequate parenting skills. He did not have time to make a trip to the school. Besides the insurance companies, the DMV, and his financial advisor, he had to deal with half a dozen foreign stock mergers for the company. It didn't help that every time the phone rang, he forgot whatever he was doing and grabbed it, hoping the police would have some new lead, some new information, _something._ Or worse, it would be Rebecca's parents or her brother. What could he say to them?

==#==

The funeral felt like drowning. Tommy had to wear a suit. He thought the tie would choke him. He wished the tie would choke him, because he couldn't stop crying. Everything was a blur. He couldn't make out the coffin; it was a brown smear with diagonal glints of golden light. It was just a box. He couldn't believe his mom was in there.

His father's hand never left his shoulder. When Tommy looked up, his father's face was stone. Dry stone. He hadn't shed a single tear.

==#==

Ollie dodged through the forest of legs. The grownups ignored him; they were busy talking about boring adult stuff. Ollie made it to the door without his mother coming after him, and he ducked outside. He trotted around the church, looking for Tommy. Finally, he spied his friend sitting on a low stone wall out back.

He walked over. "Hey."

Tommy swiped quickly at his face. "Hey," he said thickly, turning away.

Ollie grimaced. "Don't cry, Tommy."

"I'm not," his friend insisted. He rubbed his sleeve across his nose.

Ollie didn't know what to say. He hated to see his friend so distraught, but what could he do? He sat on the wall next to Tommy and dangled his legs. "I would," he said after a minute. Tommy looked at him. Ollie let his shoulders slump as he looked down at his hands in his lap. "If it was my mom."

Tommy sniffled loudly. "Brad wouldn't."

"He's a turd."

"I'd shoot his mom, and see how he liked it, but he wouldn't care. What an asshole."

Ollie glanced over, impressed with Tommy's swearing. "Just shoot him. Make his mom happy."

"Heh."

"Your mom was cool." Ollie felt a lump in his throat, thinking about the times he'd spent at Tommy's house. Mrs. Merlyn made the best chocolate pie ever. It would be strange without her around at the holidays.

Tommy didn't reply. He hung his head as more tears rolled down his cheek.

Not long after, Ollie's dad came looking for him. Ollie twisted around when his dad called his name.

"What are you boys doing out here?" he asked as he walked up.

"Just sitting," Ollie said.

"Your mom is going to give you a fit if you mess up your good clothes."

"I know."

"Tommy, it's about time to come in."

"Okay, Mr. Queen."

==#==

Tommy padded through the darkened downstairs hall, the hardwood floor cool under his feet. Light spilled out of the half-open kitchen door, painting the end of the hall in shadows of charcoal.

Tommy slowed as he neared, for he heard a sound, like a child sobbing, but a deeper timbre. He placed his fingertips against the door and gently pushed it open. He saw the broad shoulders of his father hunched over the kitchen table. They shook, and his breath hitched as if he couldn't get enough air before the sobs wracked his body again.

Tommy stood frozen, staring. He'd never seen his father cry before. Never.

"Dad?"

His father gasped and straightened, held his breath a moment to choke down his emotion. "Tommy?" He swiped his face with the back of his hand as Tommy came around to the side of the table. "What are you doing up?" His voice was thin and reedy.

"I couldn't sleep." Tommy tugged a chair sideways so he could sit in it. He looked at his dad.

His face was wet, though he kept trying to rub the tears away with his knuckles. His eyes were red-rimmed, swollen. They looked how Tommy's eyes felt, raw and crusty with dried tears.

"Why are you crying?" He still found it difficult to believe.

"Tommy, I loved your mother very much." His dad looked down at the half-full glass in front of him. A bottle of clear liquid stood close at hand. "I miss her," he said in a voice hollow with pain.

"You didn't cry at the funeral," Tommy observed.

"No. No, I didn't."

"Why?"

His dad sniffled. "There were just too many people," he said. "Reporters... photographers. I didn't want them taking pictures of... Putting it in the papers. On the TV. For everyone to see." He lifted his glass and took a quick gulp, then set it down and rubbed a hand over his eyes.

"Mom says it's okay to cry."

"Yes, Son, it is." His dad's voice sounded hoarse. "But sometimes... it's awkward."

 _Someday_ , Tommy thought, _I'm going to be like him. Strong. And then I won't cry, not where anyone can see me._ On impulse, he reached for the glass.

His dad looked over as he slid the glass towards himself, but didn't say anything, didn't stop him. Tommy took a fast gulp, like he'd seen his dad do, but the liquid tore at his throat like scalding water. He started hacking almost before he swallowed, and sprayed some on the table.

His father rescued the glass before he dropped it. "Are you all right?"

Tommy nodded. Between coughs he tried to answer, but all he got out was a "Gack!"

==#==

Malcolm watched with concern as Tommy coughed and his face grew red. "Are you sure? Do you need some water?"

His son shook his head firmly. After a minute, he stopped coughing. "I don't see how that helps," he rasped.

A fond smile played at the corner of Malcolm's mouth. "You're right. It doesn't, really." He pushed the glass aside, replaced the cap on the bottle.

He looked at his son. Tommy watched him back, frankly, openly. He had his father's eyes, his mother's hair. Malcolm reached out to touch those soft locks, rested a warm, comforting hand on his son's head.

Tears welled up in Tommy's eyes. "She's really gone, isn't she?" he asked in a small voice.

Malcolm tried to swallow past the lump in his throat. "Yes. She is."

Tommy's face crumpled. "But she was going to take me to get a really cool Halloween costume this year! We were gonna have a big party, and make a whole haunted mansion."

Malcolm's heart broke. He tugged his son and Tommy came to him, wrapped his arms around him. Malcolm held Tommy close to his chest as he cried.

"Now she can't! She's gone!" Tommy wailed. "It's not fair!"

"I'll be here for you, Tommy." Tears ran unheeded from Malcolm's eyes. "I promise."

"Why did that guy have to shoot Mom?"

"I don't know." He cried just as helplessly. "I just don't know."

"Why couldn't anybody save her, Dad?"

Guilt tore through him like a serrated knife. "I'm sorry, Tommy. Oh God, I'm so sorry."

==#==

They found Rebecca's ring.

 _"I told him to take everything. My money... my ring..."_

They wouldn't tell Malcolm where. It was no doubt some seedy pawn shop in the Glades. He wanted to go there, to be there when they questioned the owner. Malcolm didn't give a damn about him, but he'd seen the man who'd shot Rebecca. He could give the police a description. If Malcolm knew what he looked like... He wasn't a violent man, but if he got his hands around that bastard's throat...

But no. He could only go down to the precinct house to confirm the ring was hers. He couldn't even keep it; it was evidence. He couldn't even touch it, just look at it through the plastic bag. It was her entwined wedding and engagement ring, brilliant diamonds and white gold. It looked so cheap in that bag. Dirty from that animal touching it. Malcolm subconsciously touched his own ring, twisting it until it rubbed his finger raw.

"Son."

Malcolm looked up. His father leaned in the doorway of his office. Malcolm rubbed his face, feeling haggard. "Sorry. I was just..."

"You've got to push on through this, Malcolm."

"I know, Dad. I just feel so helpless."

His father stepped into the office. "You have to give the police time. This isn't an hour-long cop show. They'll figure this out. Have faith in the system."

Malcolm nodded, feeling numb.

"Maybe you should go to these field offices to close the contracts."

"Leave the country?" He looked at his father incredulously. He couldn't leave now - and abandon everything? "What about Tommy?"

"Your mother and I can look after him."

"I can't leave him alone. Not now."

"He's young. He's resilient." His father gave him a concerned look. "We all know how you doted on Rebecca."

He didn't _dote_ on her, he _loved_ her. He squashed down his anger. It's what his father meant; the old man just didn't express the gentler emotions well.

"This is tearing you apart, Son. Anyone can see that. You need to let it go."

This time, his anger slipped loose. "My wife has just been murdered! My wife, whom I loved! The mother of my son! I cannot just get over this, Dad!"

"All right, all right." His father backed down. "Just think about it.

==#==

Malcolm rode home with a contract draft on one knee, but he couldn't focus on it. There were a million more things Rebecca's sudden death had brought out, like weeds after a rain. He had to cancel her credit cards, close her bank accounts, internet accounts, cancel those catalogues she loved to get. A package had arrived for her the other day, something she'd ordered and never got to enjoy. Didn't the world realize she was _gone?_

The scenery outside the car blurred.

Every single little thing was another knife, another painful reminder that it was _his fault_ she was dead.

At night, he curled up in his wide, empty bed, with his phone tucked under his ear. He kept pressing the button to replay the message until he fell into a restless sleep. It was all he had left, her voice. Her last words. Why did they have to be so damning?

==#==

Malcolm took a breath and wasted a minute stuffing his papers into his briefcase. Then he carried his burden with him inside. "Tommy?" he called out as he set the case on the foyer table. "Tommy!"

==#==

It was time to face his dad. Tommy thought a moment about curling down tighter into the couch cushions and turning the TV volume up so he couldn't hear his father yelling for him. But that would ultimately prove futile, and just make him madder.

So Tommy flicked off the TV and went into the front room, his head down and his hair pulled forward to curtain his black eye. He slouched against the doorway, not looking up. "Yes, Dad?"

"Sit down."

He moved into his father's shadow and sat on the chair. He leaned forward, his shoulders and spine curled like a turtle's shell.

His dad didn't say anything at first. He pressed two fingers under Tommy's chin and tilted his head up. Tommy looked at the side wall, unwilling to meet his father's eyes and the disapproval therein.

"Why are you doing this, Tommy?"

His father let go, and his head dropped forward on his neck again. _Because some retarded waste of space thinks that someone shooting Mom is funny._ The words formed in his mind, but there they remained, locked away. He couldn't express his anger, his pain. His humiliation. It wouldn't accomplish anything. It would just make him cry like a baby again, and Dad... Dad couldn't even talk about Mom any more. He'd totally fall to pieces, and Tommy couldn't face seeing that. His father was meant to be strong. His weakness frightened Tommy, on a primal level.

So he remained mute.

His father slowly let out a pent breath. "Tommy, I know how hard it has been for you."

"No you don't."

"Actually, I think I'm in the unique position of knowing exactly how you feel." Tommy's silence stretched thin. "Do you think your mother would be proud of you right now? Do you?"

He bit his lip; he hung his head. He tried not to cry.

His father's voice softened. "I want to help you, Tommy. Why can't you just tell me what this fight was about? Did you start it?"

He slowly shook his head.

"Well, something did. What did they say?"

Tommy remained mute.

"What did they say to you?" His father sighed in exasperation when no answer was forthcoming. He paced back and forth; Tommy watched his shoes on the patterned carpet. "This is the eighth time I've gotten a call from the school about you fighting. It's the third time they've had to send you home." His father stopped in front of him. "This is not acceptable. If you can't offer a rational explanation of your actions, I will have no choice but to punish you." There was silence for a beat, then two. His father waiting for an answer, but there was none there to give.

Tommy shrank in on himself, like a slug poked with a stick.

"Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

His feelings were in turmoil, and he shook his head.

"Then go to your room." No anger tinged these words, only a heavy disappointment.

He slipped out of the chair and headed for the stairs. His jaw ached where it was swollen. His chest hurt where there were bruises. Nobody cared about that.

Why should he?

==#==

Malcolm watched his son slink off like a whipped dog. His heart ached, but what else could he do? Tommy wouldn't talk to him, wouldn't let him help. He ran a hand over his face. He didn't understand Tommy's violent behavior; he'd never acted out like this before. This was not the way he and Rebecca had taught their son to behave. He knew the boy was hurting, didn't Malcolm himself feel the same pain? And worse, the guilt?

He couldn't let his son ruin his life with anger or grief, or by getting expelled from school. He had to be firm.

"If you need any help with your homework, I'm here," Malcolm called after his son, trying to express his love and support, though it seemed to fall on deaf ears.

At his wits end, Malcolm crossed to the sideboard. The photograph there distracted him from the decanter. He looked down at the smiling family, his eyes drawn to the image of Rebecca. "I just don't know what to do," he said. "I really need you here." His fingertips touched the photo, but he only felt cold glass. Inside him, the image of happiness only generated pain.

== _X_ ==


	6. Razors

**Chapter 6: Razors**

CONTENT:  
Rating: Teen  
Flavor: Drama/Family Drama  
Language: yes  
Violence: fistfight  
Nudity: none  
Sex: none  
Other: references to alcohol, physical child abuse, bullying

* * *

 _His heart ached, but what else could he do? Tommy wouldn't talk to him, wouldn't let him help. He ran a hand over his face. He didn't understand Tommy's violent behavior; he'd never acted out like this before. This was not the way he and Rebecca had taught their son to behave. He knew the boy was hurting, didn't Malcolm himself feel the same pain? And worse, the guilt?_

* * *

 **Razors**

 _(Tommy is 13. Rebecca has been dead 5 years.)_

==#==

When Tommy got home from school, he went straight up to his room as usual. He could tell right away something was off. He wasn't sure exactly what, but the first thing he did was look under the bed. It seemed dusty enough. The housekeepers hadn't been in here for years. His father wanted him to have _some_ responsibility, but what he wanted was privacy. A sanctuary.

"Tommy!"

He jumped up as his father barged in without knocking. _What's he doing home so early?_

A storm was brewing on Malcolm's face, and Tommy wondered what he was in trouble for now. "Roll up your sleeves."

"What?"

"Tommy, roll up your sleeves!"

Tommy stepped back, defensively clutching his elbows as his arms wrapped across his stomach. "Wh-What for?"

" _Now!_ "

What the hell? Did his dad think he had needle tracks or something? It was ridiculous. He opened his mouth to protest, but Malcolm closed and grabbed his arm. "Hey!" He tried to pull away, but his father had an iron grip. He pushed Tommy's shirt sleeves up past the elbow, first the left, then the right. He stared at the skin, eyes darting.

He yanked his arms free. "Can I go now?"

"Take off your shirt."

"No!"

Malcolm's eyes flared. He grabbed for Tommy's arm and Tommy tried to push him away.

"Let go!"

"What are you hiding?"

"I'm not hiding anything!" Tommy thrashed and twisted, trying to pull free. A seam ripped in the struggle. Tommy was momentarily engulfed in a cocoon of blue fabric, then he staggered free as his father pulled the shirt off of him.

Tommy stood, panting, arms around his skinny torso. Malcolm's crazed eyes darted everywhere, his mouth slightly open in confusion. He reached out to shove Tommy's arms out of the way.

Anger boiled up inside Tommy's body. "Get out!" He slammed his hands against his father, and somehow moved that indomitable mountain. "Get out, you sicko! Perv! _Get out!_ " He drove Malcolm back over the threshold and slammed the door loud enough to shake the whole mansion.

Tommy threw his shoulder against the wood and thumbed the lock closed. Then he backed away, shaking in reaction. _What the hell? What the hell was that!?_

==#==

Malcolm stood in the hall, dazed by his own panicked actions. _What have I done?_ He looked down in shock at Tommy's shirt, still hanging from his hand. "Tommy...? Tommy, I'm sorry."

"You get the hell away from my room!"

He stepped forward, to be heard more clearly through the door. "Please, if you'll just let me explain..."

"If you don't get away from the door, I'm calling the cops!"

Police? _Sicko! Perv!_ "No, Tommy, I didn't-"

"I have the phone right here!"

"Okay, okay!" Malcolm backed away. "I... We'll talk later, when you've calmed down."

==#==

Malcolm retreated to his study, still holding that damning evidence in his hand. _What have I done?_

He sat down heavily at his desk. _I've scared Tommy half to death._ His hand shook as he tried to fold his son's shirt neatly. The torn arm seam caught his eye, but not his attention. _There wasn't a mark on him._

He turned his attention to what had scared him out of his own wits. On the desk, near to hand, lay three shiny razor blades.

Malcolm stared at them, tried to fathom their ominous existence.

He couldn't. Malcolm Merlyn, a man of brilliant mind, could not come up with any explanation, because all he could see, all he could think about, was finding his son's cold, lifeless body, his wrists cut open.

==#==

"Thomas?" There was a timid knock on the door. "Young Mr. Merlyn? Dinner is ready."

"Bring me a tray," Tommy called back.

There was an awkward pause. Then, "Your father wants to see you."

"Then I'm not hungry!"

==#==

The housekeeper stood in the dining room doorway. Malcolm looked up, and she just shook her head sadly.

"Thank you, Vivienne. That will be all for tonight."

==#==

The next morning, Malcolm waited at the breakfast bar in the kitchen. The morning paper sat unheeded at his elbow.

 _Sicko! Perv!_

He had to set things right, to explain. And most importantly, find out what the hell Tommy was doing with razor blades. Black fear gnawed at his stomach. He fought to tamp it down.

Tommy appeared, and without bothering with chairs or utensils, grabbed his waffles and inhaled them.

"Tommy...," Malcolm started quietly.

His son ignored him.

"Tommy, I sincerely apologize. Would you please-"

Oblivious, Tommy went to the refrigerator to guzzle orange juice from the bottle.

Malcolm pleaded to the stainless steel door. "If we could just talk. Sit down and talk a few minutes..."

Tommy closed the refrigerator door. His eyes, small ice chips, met Malcolm's briefly. "You don't exist." He turned away.

Malcolm felt the cold razors in his heart. He had to set this right; he had to tell Tommy, make him see how terrified he'd been, how sick with fear and pure panic, and worrying that Tommy had been hurting himself. He had to apologize, to explain his actions, that he hadn't meant to hurt Tommy or scare him. If Tommy would just _listen_ , he could explain everything. He could make things right.

But Malcolm's peripheral vision showed him they were not alone. Vivienne was there, in the background, preparing Tommy's lunch. He didn't want to publicize their private lives, no matter how small the audience. And so the words remained locked away.

==#==

Down at the central precinct offices, Bobby Gorem's direct line rang. He picked up. "Gorem."

" _Detective Gorem..._ " There was a hesitation in the caller's voice, then it forged on. " _This is Malcolm Merlyn. I don't know if you remember - we met a few years back._ "

Bobby's mind flashed. It hadn't been much of a case, but the incident stood out in his mind. "Yes, Mr. Merlyn, I remember."

Eames looked up from her report, brows quirked with interest. Gorem leaned forward and looked down at his desk, the better to block out the distractions of the precinct. "How can I help you?"

" _I'm sorry to bother you, but I don't know what to do. You said you knew people... specialists... who deal with troubled children._ "

"Yes, I can help. Is Tommy in trouble?"

" _I found razor blades in his room._ "

"Do you know what he was doing with them?"

" _No, I don't, but he could be hurting himself, or planning to, or-or planning..._ " Panic choked off the man's voice.

"Okay, take a breath Mr. Merlyn. Has he become withdrawn?"

" _Yes. He stays up in his room, alone, most of the time._ "

Gorem pursed his lips. It seems the rocky relationship between father and son hadn't improved. He continued asking about signs of suicidal tendencies. "Has his appetite been okay? Has he given away any of his prized possessions?"

" _I don't think so,_ " Merlyn answered slowly. " _Not that I know of... What kind of father am I?_ "

Instead of trying to answer, Bobby chewed his lip. Then he asked, "Why do you suspect Tommy is intent on hurting himself?"

" _Wh-What else could he use them for?_ "

"Mr. Merlyn," he explained as clinically as possible, "razors are often used as drug paraphernalia, to 'cut' lines of cocaine, for example."

" _Cocaine? Tommy's only thirteen!_ " Anger warred with panic.

Gorem bit his tongue to refrain from mentioning how easy it was for rich kids to get drugs, or prescription pills. Money makes life so easy. And, as he recalled, the argument leading to Tommy's injuries had been over marijuana. "It might be any number of things. You didn't find any pills or powder along with the razors?"

" _No._ "

"Okay, I would suggest you calm down and try talking to Tommy about it." He rummaged through his desk drawer. "If you need help, I have the number of a good therapist that deals with troubled teens."

==#==

Tommy had been acting weird this morning, and Oliver finally got to hear about why at lunch. Apparently, his dad had flipped out again, mega this time.

"Your dad's nuts," Oliver had said.

"Tell me about it. Hey, do you think we can convince your mom and dad to let me stay over?"

"On a school night?"

Tommy rolled his eyes. "We can do homework together."

"Oh yeah, they'll buy that," Ollie scoffed.

"Tell 'em we need to work on a school project." That plan had merit, so Oliver chewed it over. Tommy grinned slyly, "It'll be worth it; I scored big."

"With what?"

"Uh-uh. You'll have to wait til after school to see it."

It's a wonder Oliver could concentrate on Biology and History. It was hard enough to pay attention on a normal day. He would have shot a rubber band at Tommy, but he couldn't risk detention. Finally, the last school bell rang.

"Get a load of this." Tommy propped a knee against the wall and balanced his gym bag on it. He unzipped it, shielding it from view with his body.

Oliver stopped beside his friend and looked down, catching a gleam from a crystal cut bottle, half full of dark liquid. "Hey, put that away," he said, looking around the crowded hallway for any eagle-eyed teachers. "Give it to me later." He could stash the liquor in his room, his old man didn't care. Not like Tommy's gestapo dad.

The two boys joined the flood of kids flowing out of the school. They skirted the parking lot full of busses and headed down the sidewalk lined with cars waiting to pick up some of the children. Oliver's driver knew to pick them up a bit later, down at Collinder park, which is where they were headed.

Before they got far, a familiar voice taunted them. "Hey, Queenie Queer Boy, you on a date with your faggoty boyfriend?"

It was Brad, Tommy's life-long nemesis, and his crew of mouth-breathers. They sniggered and one said, "Yeah, Freaky Faggot is gonna give it to him, ain't I right?"

Oliver cursed inwardly at his offhand remark being overheard. "Just ignore those jackasses."

"I can't believe they let that guy out of second grade," Tommy growled, his head down, his brows lowered.

Oliver had given Brad a thrashing years ago, for picking on Tommy when his mother had died. The bully generally left Oliver alone, but he'd been getting bolder, especially when he was with his pack. Maybe he needed another reminder.

Oliver had gotten into deep, deep trouble with his mother over the gradeschool fight, but his father had tacitly approved, once Oliver had explained how he had stood up for his friend.

He couldn't fight Tommy's fights for him any more, not in junior high. That would just make Tommy appear weaker. And end up with them in a situation like this one - best friends accused of 'dating.'

Tommy wasn't a faggot or a weakling. He was just a thoughtful, non-violent guy. Honestly, the way he put up with Brad's bullshit through the years spoke to Oliver of a strength greater than any physical prowess.

"Aw, shit," Tommy said, suddenly stopping and looking up. "My dad's here."

Oliver followed his gaze and saw a limo parked at the curb. Why was Tommy's dad here? And while Tommy was carrying contraband! Oliver tried to think of a slick way to sneak the bottle out of Tommy's gym bag without being seen.

Tommy seemed to already have an idea. He dropped the bag, threw down his books, turned, and launched himself at Brad. A flurry of punches caught the startled bully in the face.

In an instant, the line of kids along the sidewalk reacted like magnetized filings, forming a circle. "Fight! Fight! Fight!"

Brad's cronies swarmed Tommy, and Oliver threw down his backpack to step in and help.

==#==

Malcolm saw his boy and Oliver walking towards the limo. Then an unreadable look came over Tommy's face; he threw down his stuff and attacked one of the other kids. They went down and a crowd swarmed around them, blocking his view.

Malcolm sighed.

"Wait here," he told the driver as he got out.

He waded through the young teens, until he got to the heart of the fight. Four boys had Tommy on the ground. While Oliver gamely jumped on the back of one, Malcolm grabbed another by the tender point between neck and shoulder, making him yelp. Malcolm tossed him aside easily, then applied another swift nerve strike to his second target, dropping the stunned boy to the sidewalk.

Oliver and the boy he had in a rudimentary headlock stopped their struggle and stared. The biggest boy, the one with Tommy pinned under his weight, remained oblivious and raised his fist to smash down on his hapless victim.

Malcolm grabbed his wrist at its apex and bodily hauled the boy up off his son. Wide-eyed, the boy stared at him. Malcolm maintained a crushing grip on his arm while he looked back, eyes cold with the calculations of just how to kill this boy with his bare hands. The bully paled, and Malcolm let him flee before he wet himself.

"Tommy," Malcolm growled.

Tommy squinched one swollen eye and looked up at him. "Yeah, Dad?" he asked flippantly enough.

"Get in the car."

"Sure."

From the school yard came the sounds of adult voices yelling, the whistle of a gym teacher. Malcolm looked at his best friend's son. "Oliver..."

"Don't worry, Mr. Merlyn. I'll get Tommy's books and bring them by later." He released the boy he was holding, who had the wherewithal to scamper like a rabbit.

"Thank you." Malcolm turned, straightening his jacket, and the sea of kids parted, leaving a clear path to the limo.

==#==

The limo pulled slowly away from the curb and into traffic. The privacy barrier was up. _Great_ , thought Tommy, _everything is set for me to get a huge chewing out._ At least Oliver had gotten away with the booze. That gave him plausible deniability, at any rate.

"You want to tell me what that was all about?" Malcolm asked.

"Nah."

"No," his father said, nearly at the same time. "I didn't think so."

Tommy said nothing.

"I thought we were past that," his father said, tone calm, neutral. He didn't look directly at Tommy.

Tommy shrugged.

"How long has this been going on?"

 _Since Mom died._ But he couldn't talk about his mother, not to his father. "Nothing's going on."

Now Malcolm turned to him. "You just picked a random fight for no reason."

Anger burned within Tommy. Of course, his dad always blamed him! It was always his fault! "They started it," he growled. "I finished it. It's done." He shifted in the leather seat, hoping this conversation was similarly done. He stared out the window.

Malcolm stopped his scrutiny. After a moment, he asked, "Did you want to train in martial arts?"

Tommy blinked. "Y-You want me to fight?" He looked over. Was his dad serious?

"No. Martial arts training will give you discipline and focus, and help you learn to defend yourself."

He thought about it. It might be cool to be able to do those mad blocks and kicks... but Tommy was not a fighter at heart. Despite his anger at dipshits like Brad, he didn't want to break his arm for real. Or kill him. That was a sobering thought. Besides, he didn't know much about martial arts training. All the kung fu movies made it seem so hard, with teachers putting students through brutal tests. That was not for him, either. Reality couldn't be like that, but then if it was that discipline stuff his dad was always going on about, that was just boring. "I think I'll pass."

"You're just like your mother," Malcolm said quietly.

Tommy froze, hardly daring to breathe. His dad _never_ talked about Mom. What did it mean? He didn't dare ask. He chanced a look at his father. Malcolm was looking out the other window, his face still, stony, just a hint of sadness in his eyes.

Tommy looked away, watched the trees and townhouses go by. Then he noticed how unfamiliar they looked. This wasn't the way home. "Where are we going?"

Malcolm came back to earth. "Tommy, we need to talk."

"Not this again," he groaned.

"What again?" asked his father, really with no clue.

"Tommy, you're not applying yourself." He rocked his head in time with his droning litany. "Tommy, you're not working hard enough. Tommy, you need better grades. Tommy, you're wasting your life. Tommy, you need - what did you call it? - focus and discipline."

"What do you want? 'Tommy, you need more fun and idle time in your life'?"

 _Tommy, congratulations; Tommy, I'm proud of you; Tommy, I know you're trying._ His throat closed on the words. He knew better than to ask and be disappointed.

Malcolm looked out the window. "I'm sorry."

It was then that Tommy realized that this talk might actually be different. Was his father sincerely going to try, this time?

His dad flexed his hands, licked his lips. Stalling, or maybe trying to work up his courage. Then he said, "I found the razors, Tommy."

 _Fuck!_ He was in deep shit now. "What were you doing in my room?"

"That is not the point, Son."

"You invaded my privacy!" He sat forward in the seat, nearly leaping up in anger and panic. "That is a point! It's _my_ room!"

"Which is under _my_ roof!" his dad snapped. "What were you doing with those razors, Tommy?"

 _He doesn't know!_ "I-I - It was for an art project."

"An art project?"

"Yes. I forgot to put them back, okay? I'm sorry."

Malcolm stared at him, preternaturally still, his gaze piercing.

Tommy flushed under the scrutiny, and shrank into himself.

"What art project was this?"

"Just something stupid. I got a good grade on it."

"Tommy, look at me."

He dragged his eyes up to meet his father's eyes, so hard and cold like steel.

"Did you... Or were you planning to... use them to hurt yourself?"

"What? No!" Geeze, where the hell did he get an idea like that?

Relief flooded Malcolm's frame. "I was afraid... I was afraid you were, Tommy. That's... That's why I-I went nuts last night, and... all that. I didn't mean... to hurt you. I am sorry."

Tommy sat back again, looked at his hands folded in his lap. His dad had been worried about him being hurt. Hurting _himself_. He'd flipped out for no reason, but... "Okay."

"Tommy."

He had to look at his father again.

"Were the razors for using drugs?"

"No." His eyes darted away.

"Tommy, I need you to tell me the truth."

He huffed in annoyance. "Well, I need you to believe me. That would be a start."

The limo slowed, pulled into a short drive that led to a low building surrounded by trees. "Where are we?" Nightmare scenarios began playing in his mind: Boarding school, juvie, rehab...

"We haven't been able to talk," Malcolm explained calmly. Too calmly. "And I think you need to, at least to someone. This is Dr. Paszek's clinic."

"I don't need a doctor," Tommy insisted, his muscles tightening, his insides knotting.

"Easy. She's just a therapist."

"Therapist? I'm not crazy, Dad!"

"Nobody said you were, Tommy. Calm down."

"I will not calm down! You're sending me to a shrink?"

"I think it will help you," his father said, again too calmly.

"Why don't _you_ talk to a shrink? Cuz if anyone needs one, it's you!"

"There's no reason to be upset, son."

"Oh no, sure, everything is just _fine!_ "

"You'll see her after school on Tuesdays and Thursdays. No one has to know where you're going."

"Oh, you have it all planned out for me! How nice."

"Please, just try it."

"Like I have a choice?"

Malcolm sighed. "I tried, Tommy. I know I have failed you as a father. I wish it were different. I wish you'd just talk to me."

"No, I'm done talking, Dad. I think all that's left is some sign language." He gave his father the finger and opened the door.

With another sigh, his father got out and crossed behind the limo to escort him inside.

==#==

Tommy sat in the reception room while his dad spoke in low tones to the secretary. After a few minutes, they said he could go in. Yay. He shot one last withering glare at his father, then shuffled into the room, his hands in his pockets, his head down.

"Please have a seat." The shrink was some woman with mousey hair and librarian spectacles on a chain. Tommy plopped himself into the chair facing the desk. She smiled benignly at him. "Hello, Tommy. My name is Francine. Your father tells me you're having some trouble coping with things lately. Was there anything you wanted to talk about?"

Oh, his father says. If his father knows so much, he should be answering these stupid questions. "No," he said.

"School? Your friends? Teachers? Your father? We can talk about anything you want."

"Talk all you want. I don't have to listen." He didn't have to play along with any of this.

"Tommy, it works better if you do the talking."

"For you, maybe."

"Do you want to talk about why you don't want to talk?"

"Nope. Can I go now?"

The shrink fidgeted just a little. "Do you want to talk about drugs?"

"Hah! So you can tell my dad? I don't think so."

"Tommy, we have doctor-patient confidentiality." She folded her hands on her desk, giving him a sincere look. "Nothing we discuss will go beyond our sessions."

"Uh huh. And Dad has money. You work for him, not me."

"Your father is paying for the sessions, yes; but it's not to his benefit. It's for your benefit, Tommy."

Oh, he was not buying this. This was some new way for his dad to snoop on his life, to try to 'correct' him, and complain. "Well, he's wasting his money."

"I can see there's a lot of strife between you and your father. I would like to help you. Both of you."

"Well maybe you should talk to him instead of me. Did you?"

"We spoke about your sessions. Your father is very concerned-"

"Yeah, I'm sure he is. But I didn't mean talking. I meant, did you pull your therapy tricks on him? Did you headshrink him in one of these sessions?"

"No," the doctor admitted.

"Well, you want me to talk? Fine. But not until he does, first." Tommy folded his arms. There, that was his demand, let them deal with that!

"Would you like to have him here at your sessions?"

"No. _He's_ the one that needs therapy, not me!"

"Why do you say that?" the shrink asked, in her neutral, shrink-y doctor voice.

"Because he's fucked up!"

"In what way?"

He couldn't rattle her, it seemed. She must be used to dealing with really messed-up people. He was about to spout off everything his father had done - and failed to do - in Tommy's life. But then he realized he would just be giving her fuel. "You're the shrink, you figure it out."

"It would help to have a place to start."

"What did he say about me?" His father had probably filled this chick's head with all Tommy's faults and shortcomings.

"He's concerned about how you're coping with school. And how you don't seem to want to talk to him."

Talk to him? His dad fucking attacked him! How do you talk with crazy? "He's concerned I'm a screw-up," Tommy said bitterly.

The doctor sighed and looked down at her folded hands. After a moment, she looked up again. "Is there someone you can talk to? About your feelings, your problems, even just trivial things about your day?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I have friends and all." Especially Oliver, his best friend since forever. Oliver understood him; Oliver was practically his brother.

"Is there someone older?" the shrink pried. "Who might have wisdom to impart. Maybe like a teacher you get along with?"

Tommy thought about this. "Yeah." Oliver's dad was easy to talk to. He spent more time with Mr. Queen than his own dad, anyway. "Yeah, there is."

"Maybe you'd feel more comfortable talking about your problems to this person."

He wasn't sure he should talk to Robert about Malcolm, though. "Maybe."

"If not, I'm here."

"Sure, doc." Yeah, like that would happen.

==#==

Francine meticulously hand-wrote her notes for the first session with Thomas Merlyn, for typing in later. Aloud, she said, "It was a bit rocky, but as first sessions go, it was informative."

"Did you ask him about the razors?"

"Not yet." Francine sensed impatience and looked up. "It's important to build confidence and rapport at this stage."

"Did you ask him about drugs?"

"We briefly touched on the subject." Tommy hadn't flat out denied it, but instead showed a fear of his father finding out.

"What did he say?"

"I'm afraid that falls under the doctor-patient privilege."

"Then that means yes." Malcolm Merlyn frowned.

"That means, whatever the answer is or isn't, stays between me and my client," she insisted.

" _I'm_ paying you, Doctor." The desk lamp caught a glint from his icy eyes.

Was that a threat? And an accurate prediction from the younger Merlyn. But Francine didn't need Malcolm Merlyn's money. She had plenty of clients and a comfortable income. "You're paying me to do my job, Mr. Merlyn. And my job takes a serious stance on the oath of confidentiality."

He dropped his gaze. "You're right, Doctor. I apologise."

"As I was saying," she said, pulling her glasses off to hang from their tether, " I can see there is some unresolved strife, but things are not as dire as you feared. He is not isolated; he has friends and confidants." Oddly, she noted a look of disappointment on Mr. Merlyn's face. "This is a good sign."

He nodded. "Yes, I understand. It just... hurts to think he is closer to other people than his own father."

"That can happen," she said gently. "Tommy is nearing that age where he will be stretching his wings. It is inevitable that he moves further away."

"I see." He lowered his gaze, swallowed, trying to hide his emotions.

Francine tipped her head. "Mr. Merlyn, it might be beneficial if you and I had a session or two."

"Me?"

She didn't dare hint Tommy had suggested it. "We can discuss Tommy more in-depth, and perhaps I can gain some insight to his personality." She smiled to project a non-threatening air.

Mr. Merlyn frowned. "Perhaps. But I am a very busy man, Doctor." He stood, re-buttoning his suit jacket with a well-practiced motion. "Thank you for your time."

"Of course."

Francine sighed after he left. Sometimes she thought the world would run more smoothly if everyone were in counseling. And sometimes she hearkened to her grandfather's stance: 'Leave 'em alone and let it work itself out on its own. Meddling just muddies it up worse!'

In the end, she could only help people as much as they allowed, no more, no less.

== _X_ ==


	7. Seasons out of Time

**Seasons out of Time**

 _CONTENT:_  
Rating: Teen  
Flavor: Humor/Drama  
Language: some  
Violence: no  
Nudity: mentioned  
Sex: no  
Other: none

 _Author's Note:_

Part of this (most of it) was previously published on my Live Journal. (Not that anyone saw it there.) The last section has been recently added.

I know this story is about how Malcolm and Tommy's relationship is screwed up, but still, it can't be ALL bad. So I was still trying to work out some "fluffy"/happy scenes between them... and my brain came up with one, but didn't really have anywhere to work it into the story. But then we came up with this...

* * *

 _"Tommy, I need you to tell me the truth."_

 _He huffed in annoyance. "Well, I need you to believe me. That would be a start."_

* * *

 **Seasons out of Time**

 _(Tommy is 14. Rebecca has been dead 6 years.)_

==#==

Malcolm heard Tommy breeze in the door and pound up the stairs. He got up and went after him, but didn't catch up until they were outside the door to Tommy's room.

"Tommy!" Malcolm called.

The boy turned. "Oh, hey Dad."

"Where've you been?"

"Hangin' at Oliver's place." Tommy didn't look at him, but just slouched there, his head down, his overly-long hair curtaining his face.

"And you didn't call?"

"I didn't know you were home."

Malcolm sensed the slight shift in his son's posture, a tightening. If Tommy were a fighter, he'd be going into a defensive stance. Malcolm took a breath and eased back, stifling his first instinct to reprimand his son and try to instill some discipline in him. "Well, it doesn't matter now," he managed casually. "Did you have a good time?"

Again a subtle shift as Tommy tried to regain his balance. "Oh, yeah." He looked up now, a grin spreading over his face. "We went to a concert. It was awesome!"

Malcolm smiled at his enthusiasm. "Good. I'm glad." He had to relax and stop worrying so much. Tommy was entering his rebellious teen years - not that he hadn't been rebellious for most of his life, but the more Malcolm tried to influence him, the worse he would get. He'd been leery of Dr. Paszek's advice to let go, but he had to admit, Tommy was doing much better on a free rein. Their antagonistic relationship became... merely awkward at times.

"Hey, how was Greece?"

It was Malcolm's turn to be caught off balance. Could they have a conversation that didn't turn into an argument? "It was nice. Very sunny this time of year. Maybe we can think about going there this summer."

"To Greece?"

"Sure. Or anywhere in Europe, if you like." Malcolm started flipping through his mental calendar, trying to figure out when he could spare some time away from his other obligations. He would make sure this vacation happened. It was important for their relationship.

Tommy, however, seemed hesitant. Malcolm said, "Well, that's still a few months off. Give it some thought. What I wanted to ask you today was, is there anything special you wanted for your birthday?"

Tommy's brows went up with interest. "Besides cash?"

"Yes. I thought since you're doing so well in school this year, you deserve something more substantial."

Tommy grinned. "A car?"

"A car? I think that's still a year shy of being legal."

"Well, I can tool around in the driveway, and be ahead of the Driver's Ed class."

"Yeah... maybe not."

"Oh, how about an ATV? That's totally legal."

Malcolm tried to banish visions of the mansion's lawn torn up by the tracks.

"Maybe a dirt bike," Tommy was going on.

"Why not a helicopter?" Malcolm said. "And piloting lessons?"

"That'd be cool, too." Tommy started laughing when Malcolm couldn't keep his expression neutral. He sobered after a moment. "Okay, I know! My own credit card."

Now Malcolm's brows went up. "I think the car idea was less scary."

"Hey, it's the gift that keeps on giving," Tommy said with a persuasive smile.

"I'll take all your suggestions under consideration," Malcolm said. "If you think of anything else you want to add to the list, let me know."

"Sure."

==#==

"Happy birthday, Tommy." Malcolm gave him the card with a smile.

"Thanks, Dad." He worked the envelope open. "You know, I didn't notice any giant, vehicular-shaped boxes out in the driveway..."

"Well, that wouldn't be much of a surprise," Malcolm teased him. "Maybe I'll fly your present in on a helicopter."

"Or it will be the helicopter, right." Tommy rolled his eyes, which caused him to nearly drop the slim item that fell out of his birthday card. He juggled it for a moment. "Oh, no way!" He turned it over and his face lit up. "'Thomas Merlyn' - my name, embossed in plastic!"

"Don't get too excited," Malcolm admonished him. "It _does_ have a credit limit on it."

"It's still too cool! Thanks, Dad! Oliver is gonna sh- uh - really freak out when he sees this!"

"I'm sure he will." Malcolm was also sure he was going to hear about it from Robert when Oliver started pestering him for his own card. As he watched Tommy put the card in his wallet, he started to remind him to use it responsibly... But once again, he refrained. It was difficult, but he deemed it worth the effort.

"Can we go to Oliver's now?"

"Don't you need a jacket?"

"Naah."

"Well, give me a minute, because I need one."

==#==

He found Tommy waiting out in the driveway. "Where's the car?"

Malcolm thumbed a button on his cell phone. "Bring the car around, please."

"I thought we were taking the Porsche."

"And I thought for your birthday, you'd like to be chauffeured. By a professional chauffeur, I mean."

Tommy rolled his eyes again. "Limos are boring. Sports cars rock."

Malcolm shook his head. He gently took hold of Tommy's elbow as the car pulled around.

Tommy shot a look at him, but was distracted by the trailer the limousine towed, which bore a large, distinctively vehicular-shaped box. "No way!" He started towards it, but Malcolm restrained him.

"Why don't you wait to open it until we get to the Queens' house?"

"Because I will die wondering what it is!"

"It's only 20 minutes away," Malcolm said.

"In a limo? Towing a trailer? It'll take half an hour!"

This time, Malcolm rolled his eyes. He signaled to the driver to stay in the car. He got the door open and practically stuffed the teenager inside.

"No fair, Dad! This is torture!"

"It builds character."

==#==

The boys must have spent the better part of an hour drooling over the jet-ski. Tommy insisted Oliver take his picture while he sat on it and struck different poses. Malcolm knew he was somewhat disappointed that he couldn't ride it right away (the idea of putting it in the pool was quickly vetoed by the heads of both Merlyn and Queen families), but he also knew how much Tommy had enjoyed renting a jet-ski last year at Ocean Grove. Besides, it wouldn't tear up the lawn, and if Tommy fell off, it would at least be softer hitting the water than the ground.

Robert joined Malcolm at the window. "He's turning into a fine young man."

"You only say that because you don't have to live with him."

"You only say _that_ because you've never tried living with Oliver."

The boys stampeded in the door and through the foyer, laughing. The voice of Oliver's little sister, Thea, cut through the din. "Mom!" she yelled. "Ollie's being mean again!"

"Oliver, be nice to your sister," Moira's voice returned from the hall.

"It's not my fault she's too short to do anything!"

"I am not!"

Oliver stopped and faced Thea, his hands clasped. "Sure, you can play _Need for Speed_ with us," he simpered, flicking a look at his cohort Tommy, who frowned. "You can even go first - if you get there before we lock the door, slowpoke!" He bolted for the stairs, Tommy half a beat behind him.

Thea stomped her foot. "Ollie! Mom _said!_ "

"Thee-yah," Tommy called back, elongating her name in a mocking sing-song. "Wouldn't wanna be ya!"

"Tommy, you are such a dork!"

"Thea!" Moira yelled. "Language!"

"But Mom!"

"But nothing! If you're going to be picking up that sort of language, then maybe you shouldn't be hanging around with those two. Go play in your own room."

"But _Mom!_ "

"No 'buts.' I'm raising you to be a young lady, not a heavy metal gun moll!"

"Urgh!" Thea turned and stomped up the stairs.

Malcolm glanced at Robert, who had the knuckles of one hand pressed to his lips. His eyes glinted with mirth as his chest shook in silent laughter. Malcolm felt his own mouth twisting into a reluctant grin at the sibling dramatics, despite his son's role in the teasing of young Thea.

Moira bustled into the room, carrying a tray of tall glasses. She set that on the sideboard and rounded on the two men. "You're not laughing, are you?"

They could have bluffed their way through, but they made the mistake of catching each other's eye at the same moment. Malcolm managed to bite off his chuckle while Robert turned his into a cough. "Of course not, dear," he told his wife with a grin.

Moira gave him a scathing look, though the effect was blunted by her own tight-lipped smile. "Urgh," she said, though in a much more demure tone than her daughter. "They may look cute when they're young, but then they turn into teenagers." She handed Malcolm a glass of iced tea.

He chuckled lightly at her joke, then felt the inevitable pang. How long had it been? How many years since Tommy was a boy? Since Rebecca had been alive?

Moira turned back from giving Robert his drink, and caught Malcolm's expression. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." He swallowed and concentrated a moment on mastering his emotions. "It's just, every year on Tommy's birthday, I wish Rebecca could be here, to see how he's grown."

He shouldn't have said anything. He could see the empathy in Moira's face; and Robert, his expression was closed. "Malcolm," he said quietly, "you should let it go. It's been nearly ten years."

"Six and a half," Malcolm corrected without thinking. Robert quirked a brow, emphasizing his point. Malcolm looked away, out the window, because the prickling in his eyes was really bothering him. Was there a time limit on mourning? Was it all supposed to go away one day? And how could he let go, now? His soul was still weighed down with guilt.

He felt a warm hand close over his fingers. He looked up and met the placid lake of Moira's eyes. "She'd be happy to be here. Don't spoil it for her."

A wave of calm swept over him, and he managed a small smile. "You're right." He brushed the remnants of his loneliness aside and regained his equilibrium. Moira always knew the right thing to say.

He turned his hand in her grasp to squeeze her fingers in gratitude. She smiled and responded in kind, lending him silent strength and support.

After a moment, they loosened their grip, just enough so their fingers could slide apart.

==#==

"Are you gonna watch me smoke your score on this or not?" Tommy griped, eyes glued to the screen as he worked the controller.

The boys sat on Oliver's bed. Well, Tommy sat. Oliver lay on his back, tossing a baseball up in the air and catching it. "If I watch, you'll totally choke up and _not_ smoke my score."

"Shut up."

"Same thing happens if you try to talk and play at the same time."

"Shut up!"

Tommy could almost see out of the corner of his eye that his friend was smirking. He hoped Oliver would drop the ball and get his nose smashed in.

A moment later, there was a meaty thwack as the ball landed hard in Oliver's palm. Tommy winced and was momentarily distracted by his imaginings of bloody noses. He looked over in concern, which of course caused him to lose his rhythm in the game, and then wipe out as he overcompensated. "Dammit!"

"I told you." Oliver smirked as he sat up. "Hah! I am still the champion," he said, noting Tommy's final score. He breath-roared to imitate the cheering of a crowd. "Oliver Queen takes the gold! And the crowd goes wild!"

"You're such a dweeb," Tommy griped.

"I believe the word you're searching for is 'winner.' But you wouldn't know that, being as how you are the loo-oo-zer!"

Tommy shoved Oliver out of his face. The other teen rolled around on the bed until he came upright, seated next to Tommy. He reached for the controller.

"Hey, check this out, first." Tommy pulled out his wallet.

"What, did you score more than 500 bucks this year?" Oliver reined back on his avid look a moment later. "I _have_ seen more than 500 dollars at once, you know."

"No, better than that. I scored _this_." He pulled out the credit card.

"No way!" Oliver's affectation of cool was totally blown away. He snatched the card. "Oh, man! Do you know what we can do with this?" He rolled back on the bed and nearly kicked Tommy as he swung himself to the other side. He bounced up and went to the desk, to his computer. "We can get pictures of real naked chicks!"

"What?" Tommy followed more slowly.

"Yeah, I know this site - but you need a valid credit card to get in..." Oliver started clicking madly on his web browser.

"Are you nuts? Gimme that!" Tommy whipped the card out of Oliver's fingers, then thwacked it against the boy's forehead, eliciting a startled 'ow!' "Don't you watch TV? These things leave a paper trail. My dad will be checking the bill for this thing every month!"

"Well then what the hell good is it?"

Tommy waggled the card loosely in his hand. "Cash advances," he said smugly.

Oliver grinned. "Cool! Then you can use the card for stuff like buying flowers for your dad or something."

It was a lame attempt at humor, but the odd juxtaposition of his father with a bundle of flowers triggered memories of him at the cemetery. "I can buy flowers for my mom," Tommy blurted without thinking. "To put them on her grave." And that thought took a sudden left turn that brought him face to face with the yawning chasm inside himself. Where all the other kids at school had a mom - whether they were caring and fun or nagging and annoying - Tommy had only... nothing.

Oliver noticed the change in his demeanor right away. "Hey, man," he said, looking worried. "I was just joking. I didn't mean... Tommy, I'm sorry. Hey, don't-"

Tommy clenched his jaw. His face and neck burned with the effort of keeping sudden tears inside, where they belonged. _Not_ spilling. _No._ Even if it was only Oliver who saw. Tommy struggled to force the muscles in his throat to stop strangling him so he could swallow.

Oliver looked away, embarrassed for him. Tommy went back to his seat on the bed, using the brief respite to swipe at his eyes. "You're such a dweeb," he managed to grate out.

"Man, I'm sorry."

Oliver must have mistaken the roughness in his voice for anger. Tommy gained a bit more control and tried to sound disaffected. "Worse than a dweeb. You're a dork."

The other teen frowned as he slouched in his chair. Then he said, "Actually, I have it on good authority that _you're_ the dork, Merlyn."

"'Good authority'?" Tommy twisted around. " _Thea?_ You're seriously going by what your little sister says?" His eyebrows winched themselves higher with each word.

"Who else would be an expert on dorkiness?" Oliver snapped back defensively. "She's like Captain Dork of Dorkville."

"Leader of the Dorkville Dorks cheerleader squad?"

"Ruler of all Dorkdom!"

"Actually, I think that's you," Tommy said. "You should get one of your sister's princess dresses tailored so you can wear it when they crown you Queen of all Dorkdatron."

"I am not a queen!"

"Oh, I have it on 'good authority' that you are, Queenie-boy!"

"Shut up, 'Whizzer'!"

Tommy jumped up and plopped belly-down on the bed, so his head and arms hung down. He tugged at the box of video games that was under the bed. "Let's see if you have any Princess Pink Pony Dress-up games in here."

"No!" To Tommy's surprise, Oliver launched himself out of the chair and into a superman fly over the bed to bounce down and grab Tommy's arm.

"What? Like you really have Pretty Princess Pony in here?" Tommy grinned.

"No!" Oliver shouted.

Tommy started laughing. "Because you sure act like you do. Let's see..." He started fending off Oliver with one arm while trying to rummage around in the box with his other hand. He flung all kinds of fighting and racing games aside until he managed to espy a flash of pink. He shoved Oliver off and grabbed it. "Oh my God! You seriously have 'Barbie Super Model' in here!"

"That is not mine!" Oliver screeched, alternately punching Tommy in the ribs and trying to make a grab for the case the other boy was waving out of reach.

"Queenie Queen, Ruler of the Pink Princesses!" Tommy crowed, laughing so hard, he couldn't defend himself.

"It's Thea's! She sneaks in here to play her games because my TV is bigger!"

"And you just had to keep it!"

"I was hiding it, so she couldn't play it any more and would stop annoying me!" Red-faced, Oliver lunged once again to grab the game. Both boys tumbled off the bed, laughing, yelling, and wrestling.

A few moments later, there came a rapping at the door. "Ollie, are you guys fighting?" Thea's voice penetrated the wood. "I'm telling Mom! - _Mom!_ " She'd barely taken a breath between the threat and the deed.

Tommy and Oliver froze at once. "No!" they both denied in chorus. With one last parting glare, they scrambled to their feet and quickly brushed down their hair and clothing. Tommy thrust the incriminating game at Oliver who, perhaps imprudently, stuffed it in his shirt to hide it.

"Thea!" Oliver went over and yanked the door open. "We're _not_ fighting; stop being such a tattletale!"

"Then what are you doing?"

"Playing!" Oliver insisted, echoed by Tommy.

"Then I can play, too." She ducked past Oliver, through the open door.

"Argh, Thea! You weren't invited!"

"Mom said!"

"She _said_ I had to be nice to you." Oliver glowered down at his sister. "So I'm _nicely_ asking you to get lost."

"You're gonna get in trouble!" Ignoring her brother's unsubtle hint, she plopped herself down on the side of the bed. There was no way, short of bodily picking her up, that they were going to get her out of the room, now.

Tommy palmed his face. "Outsmarted by a kindergartner."

Thea turned her fury on him. "I'm in first grade!"

"Oh, that's so much better!" He ignored Oliver's glare over Thea's head. "Okay, fine. You can play _one_ race. Then the two people with the highest scores get to play the next game, and the loser has to be quiet. You got that?"

"Fine."

Tommy handed over the controller.

Oliver shook his head. "You're so doomed."

==#==

Later that night, as Robert and Moira were getting ready for bed, he asked his wife, "Don't you think it's time for Malcolm to move on? He can't stay in mourning over Rebecca all his life."

"Well, I don't know," she said, selecting a nightgown with her back to him. "Malcolm was very devoted to her. It's natural for him to think about her on their son's birthday."

Robert frowned "It just doesn't seem healthy."

"I find it heartening to know a man can love a woman so completely that he could still be loyal to her after all this time."

Warning bells sounded in Robert's mind. He knew he could not respond to that. He'd always been discreet - not that it happened often, not that it meant anything at all in terms of his marriage or his affection for Moira. She clearly had a different attitude.

When no answer was forthcoming, Moira simply moved on into the bathroom to finish getting ready for sleep.

==#==

 _"Dad! Dad! Watch me!"_

 _"I'm watching, Son!"_

 _Tommy stood at the base end of the diving board. He waved, and when Malcolm waved back, he ran a few steps and launched himself out over the water. "Cannonball!"_

 _Water splashed up up in an arc and spattered on the concrete apron of the pool. Tommy swam over and climbed up, dripping everywhere. "Did I splash you?"_

 _"Almost!" Malcolm grinned. "It's a good thing we have an umbrella here." He was sitting on a chaise lounge near the patio table with the sun shade. He'd swum a couple laps earlier and had a towel loosely wrapped over his trunks._

 _"I'll get you this time! I'll make an evern bigger splash!" Tommy scampered towards the diving board._

 _"Walk!" Rebecca yelled in reminder of safety precautions on the wet concrete. She carried a tray of refresments over to the table._

 _Tommy rolled his whole head in a massive eye-roll, then stomped with big exaggerated steps around the pool. As fast as he could._

 _Rebecca stifled a laugh. "He takes after you," she told Malcolm._

 _"Me? I think that comes from your side of the family."_

 _"He's your son, through-and-through."_

 _"Oh, I'm not so sure about that," he teased. He reached out and caught his wife around the wasit and pulled her into his lap. "Maybe we should make doubly sure."_

 _Rebecca squealed and laughed. "Malcolm, you are so bad!" She wriggled but didn't manage to escape. More laughter pealed from her as he nuzzled her neck and tickled her._

 _"I'm gonna splash you guys!" their son threatened from the diving board._

 _"Saved by the self-limiting offspring," Rebecca joked._

 _"Go ahead, Son," Malcolm called with a huge smile. "I got her, she won't get away!" He tightened his embrace._

 _"Ack! Whose side are you on?"_

 _Tommy took three running steps and launched into the air like a young bird. With another whoop of joy, he tucked his legs in and made a mighty splash. His parents shrieked and laughed. Beaming, Tommy clambered up and went to them._

 _"Did I get you?"_

 _"A little," Rebecca said._

 _"Try the big slide," Malcolm suggested eagerly. He'd just had it installed that week._

 _"Okay!" Tommy darted away._

 _"Walk!" Rebeecca reminded him again._

 _This time, Tommy groaned out loud, and Malcolm couldn't stop an involuntary sympathy groan. Rebecca elbowed him in the ribs. "Do you still doubt me?"_

 _"I guess I can't argue this time." He chuckled._

 _"Let me up so I can get the camera."_

 _Reluctantly, he released her, and she went to the table to pick up the camcorder._

 _Malcolm looked across the pool at the slide. Tommy was just getting to the top of the tall ladder. He stopped on the last step, gripping the hand rails. With trepidation, he looked down at the very, very long and twisting slide._

 _"Are you sure it's safe?" Rebecca asked. "He's not too small? It's not too steep?"_

 _"Honey, once he tries it, he'll be shooting down that thing like an otter all day."_

 _"Wave, Tommy!" Rebecca aimed the camera._

On the screen, little Tommy let go of one rail and waved. His small face was still drawn with uncertainty.

Malcolm heard his voice from off camera. "You can do it, Son!" His voice had been so much lighter, so free and even innocent. He gulped his drink.

Encouraged, Tommy finished the climb to the top of the slide and sat down. He looked down one more time, took a breath, then pushed off. The image wobbled and blurred as it followed his rapid descent.

"Woohooo!"

Little Tommy shot feet-first into the pool, with a splash a bit less spectacular than his previous efforts. His enthusiasm wasn't dampened in the least. He got out of the pool again, all smiles. "Dad! Did you see that? That was awesome!"

"Yes it was!"

"Come on, I bet we can make the biggest splash ever, together!" Tommy grabbed his dad's hand and tugged him out of the chaise. "Come on, let's go!"

Laughing, Malcolm let himself be pulled. "All right, all right!" He freed himself from the towel.

The camera tracked father and son heading off together. "Be careful," Rebecca's voice said, clear and loud so close to the microphone.

"Yes, Mom," both Tommy and Malcolm said in identical put-upon tones. They shared a conspirational glance, then rolled their eyes nearly simultaneously.

In his chair, Malcolm snuffled a laugh. Then he needed his handkerchief a moment.

On the screen, young Malcolm had lifted little Tommy onto his shoulders to climb the ladder. He heard Rebecca mutter again, "You guys had better be careful."

They were careful. Malcolm slowly crouched, then sat on the top of the slide, one hand gripping the rail and the other firmly holding Tommy's leg. Tommy clung to him like a koala.

They sat a moment there. They were too far away for their exchange to be recorded, but Malcolm remembered it clearly.

 _"Dad, I'm scared."_

 _"It's okay, Son. I've got you."_

== _X_ ==


	8. Youthful Indiscretions

**Youthful Indiscretions**

 _CONTENT:_  
Rating: Teen  
Flavor: Drama  
Language: some  
Violence: no  
Nudity: none  
Sex: mentioned (teen)  
Other: drug use, alcohol use, by minors

 _Author's Note:_

Sorry about the delay in this chapter, but believe me, it was well worth it! Special thanks to Rian Steelsheen and my partner in Bloodravens, Dark Empress V, for inspiration, direct or indirect.

* * *

 _Malcolm sensed the slight shift in his son's posture, a tightening. If Tommy were a fighter, he'd be going into a defensive stance. Malcolm took a breath and eased back, stifling his first instinct to reprimand his son and try to instill some discipline in him. "Well, it doesn't matter now," he managed casually. "Did you have a good time?"_

 _Again a subtle shift as Tommy tried to regain his balance. "Oh, yeah." He looked up now, a grin spreading over his face. "We went to a concert. It was awesome!"_

 _Malcolm smiled at his enthusiasm. "Good. I'm glad." He had to relax and stop worrying so much. Tommy was entering his rebellious teen years - not that he hadn't been rebellious for most of his life, but the more Malcolm tried to influence him, the worse he would get. He'd been leery of Dr. Paszek's advice to let go, but he had to admit, Tommy was doing much better on a free rein. Their antagonistic relationship became... merely awkward at times._

 _"Hey, how was Greece?"_

 _It was Malcolm's turn to be caught off balance. Could they have a conversation that didn't turn into an argument? "It was nice. Very sunny this time of year. Maybe we can think about going there this summer."_

* * *

 **Youthful Indiscretions**

 _(Tommy is 16. Rebecca has been dead 8 years.)_

==#==

Tommy never felt more free than when he was driving his Lancer. Well, that, and when his dad was out of town on one of his numerous trips. It was almost a shame to hold parties at the mansion, where he didn't have to drive out to them.

Pot was a good excuse. Hell, pot was a good excuse for anything. All the kids wanted parties at the mansions, Merlyn or Queen. But no, couldn't smoke pot at home, someone would eventually notice the smell. Drinking parties, now those could be tidied up.

This one was both. Tommy pulled into the overlook parking area next to Oliver's car. He found his best friend at the picnic table closest to the fire barrel, with a lip lock on Samantha Sommers. Well, hey, Laurel didn't like pot parties, she claimed her dad would smell it on her a mile away.

Tommy rescued the poor, neglected roach and took a toke.

"Hey!" Oliver managed belatedly.

"Hey, yourself. Glad you saved me some. Yo, Samantha." Tommy grinned, and she blushed.

Oliver was about to put together a stunning comeback, but another guy came over and bumped Tommy's arm. It was Justin. Tommy handed Oliver back his joint, and moved to the shady side of the table. He forked over a wad of money for a little bottle full of pills. Just the thing for his attention deficit. Justin slunk off and Tommy grinned, pocketing the bottle.

Oliver gave him a crooked look. "Man, why do you like that stuff?"

"It gives me a boost. Makes me feel like a genius on rocket fuel." Tommy kept on grinning. "Plus my dad is happy I'm doing better at school." Things were so much easier on amphetamines. Hell, Tommy might even try out for the school play this year. Should be fun. Not to mention, a real chick attractor. "Best of all, they don't look like drugs, they look like vitamins."

Oliver passed the joint back as he dove into another tongue-wrestling match with Samantha. Tommy grabbed it and took a seat, leaning back to relax on a fine spring evening. At least his therapist hadn't tried to put him on any pills. Shoulda put his dad on chill pills. Tommy snorted and choked, laughing. Oliver rescued the joint.

Theresa came over, giggling and a bit wobbly, beer bottle in hand. She sat down and came right on to Tommy, and he drew her in. Ah, pot, booze, and sex. The perfect night!

==#==

Tommy and Theresa dated a bit, on and off. Tommy tried other girls. Possibly more than Oliver. Oliver was a player, he was blond, had the looks, and the bucks. But Laurel waged a pretty strong campaign advertising that she and Oliver were a couple. This put a damper on his scores.

Tommy, on the other hand, just had to flash a smile and his baby blues, and girls would totally melt.

So Tommy got a car and lost his virginity. Or, as he liked to think of it, claimed Sandra Cliffordson's. And Theresa's. And Stephanie's, Nicole's, Amber's, Jennifer's... and... well, the list was long.

The first time he wrecked his car, it was a relatively minor affair. He'd been driving Theresa home when they went off the road and into a ditch. No one was hurt, but Theresa's father made a big stink over it. Tommy's dad pulled a bunch of strings, mostly ones connected to large bills, and Tommy got off with just a warning.

A warning he took to heart. Don't drink and drive girls home. Driving by himself, that was a different story. No one would ever clip his wings. If he had an accident, it was a lot less messy. Call a tow truck, call his dad.

Once, he woke up in jail, blitzed out of his mind. He was afraid he'd done something terrible, but then he saw a familiar blue uniform. He'd gotten to know the late night shift that covered the overlook and Lover's Lane.

One cop complained, loudly, that they ought to keep Tommy in lockup overnight. But Riley knew better. One short trip to the pay phone, and Tommy was sailing free.

Well, as free as he could be with his father yelling at him again. The car was in the shop, so Tommy was effectively grounded. Or would be, if his best bud Oliver didn't have a car.

It's not like his dad could enforce a house arrest. He had work. Business trips. He was barely home, and Tommy didn't care. Unless Malcolm was out of town when he needed a tow.

==#==

Tommy waited in the study while his dad was on the phone. _I'm screwed_ , he thought. _No, I'm dead_.

"I want more options," his father was saying into the phone, his voice as level as it would be on any corporate call, with just a hint of an edge. "Yes, I understand, Harold. Let me talk to him; I'll get back to you."

 _This is a nightmare._ It couldn't be happening.

He heard the phone click down into the cradle with normal calmness. Malcolm turned and crossed to him, and he found he couldn't look his father in the eyes.

"Tommy, is this true? Did you get this girl pregnant?"

"Well, I dunno!' Weren't girls supposed to know when they'd get pregnant and... not? He only hooked up with Heather once or twice. Who knew how many other guys there were?

"Tommy, I'm not angry," Malcolm said levelly, a total lie. "And I know people like us make a very tempting target for false accusations like this. But I need to know the truth, and how much danger there is of a paternity test identifying you as the father."

"Look, I dunno who she's been with."

"Did you," Malcolm asked with tired patience, "have unprotected sex with her?"

Tommy scrunched in on himself. It hadn't been a planned thing! There were parties, there was drinking, they'd hooked up. "Yes," he admitted in a tiny voice.

His father said nothing, but his faint sigh and expression told the whole story. Annoyance, disappointment, and a hint of _My God, my son is a moron._ "Son, you _need_ to be more responsible than this. I know it just seems like fun and games, but when you father a child, your life is over. Even if you don't marry the girl and raise the baby yourself, you could end up being financially responsible for another human being. That could last seventy years or more! I don't think you're ready for that, do you?"

Worms squirmed inside Tommy's gut. "No," he said miserably. And was that what his dad felt when Tommy was born? That his life was over, ruined? _Good_ , an inner voice snarled vindictively.

"Do you need me to teach you about using a condom?"

"Jesus, no, Dad!" Tommy's neck burned. "We have health class!"

"All right. I know you hate when I tell you to be more responsible, and Lord knows, you do the opposite of everything I tell you, so I won't even try. I just hope you've learned a valuable lesson, here." Malcolm didn't wait for a response, but turned and walked back to the phone.

Tommy didn't know if that was a dismissal, so he stayed put. He soon wished he hadn't when he heard his father talking to the lawyer.

"You tell them this is the deal. They keep it quiet, and we'll pay for an abortion. If they insist on pursuing this, and it turns out a paternity test proves Tommy is not the father, I will sue them into the ground, and they will have _nothing_."

==#==

The next morning when Tommy went into his bathroom, there was a box of condoms not-so-subtly placed on the sink. Tommy grimaced, wondering if his dad had put them there, or had gotten the housekeeper to do it.

==#==

Malcolm put his face in his hands. What had Tommy become? He was a selfish, irresponsible lout with no ambition, no life goals. No life _values_. Despite everything Malcolm had done to try to instill him with discipline and mindfulness.

And all this time he'd backed off, thinking Tommy was doing better, finding his own way. Now this? It was unconscionable! What could Malcolm do now? Tommy was no longer a boy, but a young man.

He lifted his head, reached for the nearest photograph of Rebecca. It was his favorite, a shot of all three of them, mother, father, son, smiling, happy whole.

"I failed you again," he confessed in a small voice.

How could he make up for this? Caring for Tommy had been the one major thing Rebecca had left in his hands. She'd be utterly devastated to see her baby boy now.

If Tommy were a lost cause, how could he atone?

==#==

Robert looked at his long-time friend. The years had been kind to Malcolm, but today, there were lines on his face. A lack of lustre in his eyes. Finally, after they'd finished eating their lunch and chatting about mundane business, Robert asked him, "Malcolm, is something wrong?"

"It's just... Tommy," he sighed wearily.

"I thought he was doing fine. Better at school and everything." Malcolm was a hell of a perfectionist. Perhaps he just needed some perspective on Tommy's foibles. Lord knew, Oliver could usually top his friend on stupid stunts, but he was still a good boy at heart.

"I thought so, too," Malcolm said dejectedly.

"What's he done this time?" Robert sipped his water.

At first it seemed Malcolm didn't want to answer, but eventually, he had to get it off his chest. "He got a girl pregnant."

"My God, Malcolm." Robert winced in sympathy. "You're sure it's not some gold-brickers looking to make a score?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. He admitted it."

"I'm sorry." This was one story he couldn't one-up with an Oliver anecdote. "What are you going to do about it?"

"It's been handled," Malcolm admitted darkly, and Robert knew not to pry. "But I feel like such a failure. How could I have let this happen?"

"It's not like you were there," Robert joked. The hurt look on Malcolm's face made him wish he hadn't. "Look, it's not your fault. Tommy is his own person."

"But I should have raised him better!"

Robert shook his head. It had been so difficult for Malcolm without his wife Rebecca. He didn't envy his friend trying to go it alone. He'd tried to encourage Malcolm to find someone else, but he was a rare breed, it seemed. A one-woman man. "You can't control another person," Robert reminded him. "No matter how much you'd like to. All you can do is teach your children right from wrong, lead by example, and hope something sticks. Then they have to find their own way. That's now the world works. Keep on loving and supporting him."

"Support him when he does things like this?"

"You were young once, Malcolm. You can't tell me you've never made a mistake you regret."

His friend's normally stone facade crumpled in pain.

"You don't need to support his decision, just him. Let him know you're there if he needs you."

Malcolm struggled to regain his composure. "You're right. Thank you."

"I'm always here for you," Robert said with a fond smile. He waved for the check.

"There's something else I've been considering," Malcolm said, after the server had cleared the table.

"Oh?" Robert pulled out his gold card and gave it to the waiter.

"I think we should expand on our work in the Glades."

Robert knitted his brows. Both Queen Consolidated and Merlyn Global were highly active in the charities of Starling City - the support of the police force, shelters, Rebecca's clinic. What more could they do? "How so?"

"Do you know Frank Chen?"

"Of SanChen Enterprises? Sure. I think I met him last fall at the West Coast conference."

"His daughter was recently raped, in the Glades."

Now Robert frowned. All that money they provided, and there was still such a high crime rate in that area.

"There are a few others, like you and me, like Frank. Powerful businessmen, who have all lost something to the Glades."

He remembered all those years ago, his panic over the death of that Building Inspector. Rebecca's murder. Now Frank Chen's daughter's rape. All happening in the Glades.

The waiter returned with his card, and he pocketed it absently. "What are you proposing we do?"

Malcolm pulled a small notepad from his jacket. "I've been jotting down names. Names of people of interest in the Glades." He passed the notepad to Robert, who flipped it open. "People we've had dealings with, or people we've gone up against."

Robert recognized some of the developers and landowners. Nelson Ravich, Adam Hunt... "You want to form an alliance with these people?"

"No, I want to form an alliance _against_ these people."

"I don't see how...?"

"Think of all the money we have." Malcolm leaned back in his chair, gestured succinctly. "The power. Think of how we could use it to force these bad elements to change for the better."

Robert flipped the notebook page. "Bertinelli?" he read aloud. "You want to try to - what? Bribe the mob?"

"Bribe..." Malcolm tipped his head. "Blackmail..."

Robert gaped. "The _mob_ , Malcolm!"

"If there is organized crime, why can't there be organized anti-crime?" his friend shot back.

"Isn't that the police?"

"Look," said Malcolm, leaning over the table, his eyes intense, "we've done everything humanly possible to make the SCPD the most powerful and advanced police force in the United States, and that still isn't enough. I need to do more. Don't you feel the need to make a real difference?"

Robert took a breath and mulled over the idea. He did feel the need to do more, to do better. The foundry wasn't making enough of a profit for the shareholders. They wanted to force a closure, even after Robert had promised those people their jobs were safe.

This proposal was radical, but a lot of Malcolm's ideas were, and those always seemed to do the best for Merlyn Global. "All right," Robert allowed after a few minutes of silent consideration. He looked his friend in the eye. "But we start small, and we take it slow."

==#==

Malcolm felt recharged, now that he had a new plan in place. If he could bring justice to the Glades, his wife's soul could finally find peace.

And Tommy... Tommy would make his own way. Malcolm would try to be there for him - though it always seemed to be ever trying, never succeeding. But Tommy didn't need him. That became more and more painfully obvious with each passing year. Not only did Tommy not need him, he didn't _want_ him.

Malcolm could spend more time following his own pursuits. He had kept up with his martial arts, learning new styles, honing his techniques. Perhaps it was time to return to his roots, where training was serious business.

Because if this anti-crime organization wanted to play hardball with criminals, he had the feeling he'd need it.

== _X_ ==


	9. Party of the Century

**The Party of the Century**

 _CONTENT:_  
Rating: Teen  
Flavor: Humor/Drama  
Language: some  
Violence: yelling  
Nudity: semi, implied  
Sex: implied (teen)  
Other: alcohol use (teen)

 _Author's Note:_

I was re-watching 'The Huntress Returns,' and in the double-date disaster from hell, Oliver and Tommy mention a humorous incident from when they were teens. I decided I wanted to write it up. I mentioned to Astra that I really felt like writing a scene where Tommy and Malcolm actually get along for once. Um... this isn't it.

This chapter previously appeared as an excerpt on my (not so) Live Journal.

* * *

 _Malcolm felt recharged, now that he had a new plan in place. If he could bring justice to the Glades, his wife's soul could finally find peace._

 _And Tommy... Tommy would make his own way. Malcolm would try to be there for him - though it always seemed to be ever trying, never succeeding. But Tommy didn't need him. That became more and more painfully obvious with each passing year. Not only did Tommy not need him, he didn't want him._

 _Malcolm could spend more time following his own pursuits. He had kept up with his martial arts, learning new styles, honing his techniques. Perhaps it was time to return to his roots, where training was serious business._

 _Because if this anti-crime organization wanted to play hardball with criminals, he had the feeling he'd need it._

* * *

 **The Party of the Century**

 _(Tommy is 17. Rebecca has been dead 9 years.)_

==#==

Tommy trotted to the front door when Oliver and Laurel rang. He ushered them in. "My dad is out of the country on one of those sabbatical things, and the servants all have the weekend off." Tommy grinned like the fox left to guard the henhouse and led his two friends through the mansion to the back door. With a flourish, he pushed open the double French doors and went out onto the back porch. "Behold the venue for the Party of the Century!"

"Oh, wow, Tommy," said Laurel, her eyes sparkling as she took it all in. "You really went all out!"

And he had: laying out speaker cables to power huge stacks, stringing lights through the trees and hedges, setting up long tables piled with chips and pretzels, vats of dip and guacamole, towers of lunchmeat and cheese slices. And through it all, nary a sign of any bottles, cans, or kegs.

"Where's the booze?" Oliver asked.

Tommy raised a hand, forefinger extended. With a smug suppressed grin, he led them down through the yard towards the pool. Oliver took Laurel's hand to help her down the steps. As they hit the ground, she entwined her fingers with his.

They came to the concrete deck of the in-ground pool and stood staring down a long moment.

"Dude," Oliver said; "Somebody peed in your pool."

Laurel laughed and leaned on his arm. Tommy chuckled. "That's not water."

Oliver leaned over, taking a cautious whiff. "Seriously? Beer?"

"Yep!"

"Oh my God, Tommy," Laurel laughed.

"That's... a hell of a lot of beer," Oliver said, duly impressed.

"Well, you invited everybody in our high school class, didn't you?"

"Yeah- well, no. Not _everybody_. Only everybody who is anybody." Oliver looked at him. "I didn't invite the dweebs." Laurel made a face and poked him for being such a jerk. He hardly noticed.

"Come on, man," Tommy said. "This is the last weekend of our last summer in high school. I'm a freaking billionaire; I can afford to entertain the dweebs. Man, at our 40-year class reunion, when they're all fat and balding, they're still gonna remember this and talk about it! The Party of the Century!"

Oliver had to be jealous. Tommy was always his wingman, and never 'the man.' The Oliver Queen parties were the ones everybody talked about, but this stunt... this would put Tommy in the annals of history right up there with him. No, _topping_ him. Even if Oliver had conceived of filling an Olympic-sized swimming pool with beer, he could never have pulled it off. Not with his attentive father and caring mother. No, after all these years, having an absentee dad was going to pay off! Tommy grinned.

"Yeah, okay." Oliver grinned back. Jealous or not, they were still friends, and this was going to be one hell of a party. "I'll have to make a few more calls." He kissed Laurel and untwined her hands from his waist. Before he set off on his new mission, he asked, "How much beer _is_ that?"

Tommy shrugged nonchalantly. "Eh, I lost count after two trucks."

"You think we can really drink all this?"

"Don't worry! It's _light_ beer!"

==#==

The Party of the Century... It had been grand! Cannonballing into the pool - swimsuits were optional - had gained new popularity. The place was packed with hundreds of teens, dancing to the pounding music. Laughing and smiling, and having the greatest time ever. Tommy slept with a big smile on his face. But that sleepy bliss was being eroded by something that sounded like sledgehammers in a tunnel, coming closer and closer...

"Tommy...? Tommy! _TOMMY!_ "

"Eh?" He twitched and nearly fell off the couch, saved only by the fact that his legs were pinned down by a couple of cheerleaders. He twisted his head around and squinched up one eye, trying to focus. "Dad?" His father's scowling face came into view. "I thought you weren't due back 'til... uh... what day is it?" He levered himself up a little and peered around blearily at the dimly-lit room piled with bodies of - to be fair, mostly-dressed - teenagers. "What time is it?"

"Tommy," his father snapped, causing another lance of pain to drill through his skull. "What the hell? Who are all these people?"

"Some kids from school."

"'Some'? It looks like all of them!" Malcolm Merlyn looked around, and Tommy had to admit, his dad had a point.

"I had a party..." He rubbed his head, but he might as well not have bothered. His father's yell could split rocks even on a good day.

"Listen up!" the senior Merlyn addressed the mansion at large. "Everyone who is _not dead_ , you have exactly five minutes to _get the hell out_ \- OR YOU WILL BE!"

This pronouncement was met with a chorus of groans, moans, yelps, and a general scrambling to grab personal items - shoes, keys, purses, brassieres - and get out the door. Tommy gripped the arm and back of the sofa as his buxom paperweights fled. His dad marched out onto the back porch, his voice thundering at the hapless revelers.

Tommy groaned and reached under the couch for a bottle to take the edge off his hangover. Then he remembered - there weren't any bottles. He groaned again.

The mansion cleared out in a rush. Then Oliver came downstairs, hand in hand with Laurel.

"I better get going," she said. "Hey, Cheryl? Give me a ride, wouldya?"

"I'll take you home," Oliver said, leaning in for a kiss.

"My dad _will_ shoot you," she said playfully, shoving him away. "And get out, you have serious morning breath!"

"But you're still an angel of beauty," he called out as she managed to wriggle away from him.

"Yeah, right!"

Tommy snorted, then wished he hadn't. Oliver came in and flopped onto the couch next to him. "Damn, your dad can yell."

"No shit. You heard him?"

"Oh yeah."

"I thought he wasn't coming back 'til Monday night," Tommy said, scrunching his face as he tried to do calculations with a hangover. "It's not Monday night, is it? We didn't accidentally party all the way through Sunday, did we?"

Oliver pursed his lips. "Uhm... maybe?"

Tommy concentrated harder. It was a blur. So yeah, maybe. Then he cocked an ear towards the foyer. When he was sure it was empty, he cut a look at Oliver. "You get lucky with Laurel?"

The blond teen grinned. "Oh, yeah."

"Heyyyy!" Tommy shared the grin and a high five. "All right!"

"How about you?"

"Definitely!" Or at least, he was pretty fairly certain that... something had happened. "Two... Three..." He tried to work it out. "How many, exactly, would constitute half the cheerleading squad?"

Oliver laughed. "That lucky? Seriously?"

"It was one hell of a party." Oliver must still feel jealous about that.

"You were drunk. You probably got it on with Jason."

"Hey!" Tommy punched him on the arm. "I'm not gay - _Queen!_ "

"Ow! Okay, okay, 'Whizzer!'" Oliver snickered. "It was probably Ginny MacIntire. Easy to get those two confused."

"God, you're such an asshole. Why am I even your friend?"

"I'm the only one who will put up with you."

"More like I put up with you, out of pity for your inability to stop being a jerkass."

Oliver's retort was interrupted when Tommy's father stormed back in. "Tommy! Where - _how_ \- in the hell did you get...," he sputtered for a moment, "however much beer that was!?"

The two boys snorted and collapsed against each other in mirth.

"You think this is funny?" His dad's face got redder by the minute. He cut a glare at Oliver. "What are you still doing here?"

Oliver made a Herculean effort to act serious and come up with a plausible excuse. "Well... everybody's parked in front of my car. I have to wait until..."

"Go wait outside!"

Oliver ducked his head and moved to get up. "It was nice knowing you," he muttered out of the side of his mouth. "See you at your funeral."

"Seeya."

Oliver sloped out, and the brief respite of silence stretched thin. Tommy must still have an elevated blood-alcohol level, because the more his dad fumed, the harder he wanted to laugh.

"You didn't answer my question," his father growled.

"Well, you know, you keep going on about how I should apply myself to stuff, use my brains, accomplish something. So I did! I used my ingenuity." He grinned flippantly.

"Dammit, Tommy!" His father raised his hand, but only raked it back through his hair. "Where's Annette?"

"I gave everybody the weekend off." His father choked down another curse. "You gonna ground me again?"

"Is there a point?" He looked down at Tommy. The man was at the end of his rope, his hair messed up and sticking out a bit. "Will you actually obey my strictures this time? Or are you just going to sneak around behind my back again?"

Tommy sullenly shrugged one shoulder. If his father had ever really wanted to enforce his rules, he should have been there to do it! And if his dad couldn't be bothered, why should he? "You said I could have a party," he offered lamely.

"I thought," his father said raggedly, trying to rein back his temper; "I could trust you to behave like a responsible young adult. Clearly, I was mistaken." Tommy slouched further down on the sofa. "You disappointed me."

 _Again._ The word hung in the air between them, unspoken. Tommy stared at his feet. And somewhere in the back of his mind, a selfish little voice said, _Good. Now you know how I felt all those years._ Aloud, he said nothing. His dad wouldn't listen, anyway.

Finally, his father gave up. He turned away with a frustrated sigh. "Well, since you sent the help on holiday, you can start cleaning up!" He stalked out.

Tommy slouched down even further, until his shoulders were in the crease of the sofa, with only his neck and head upright against the back. It was an entirely uncomfortable position to sit and sulk, so before he got a crick in his neck, he got up and, cursing underbreath, started picking up the mess.

==#==

It was full dark when Tommy quit filling trash bags. He went into his room and closed the door, locked it, then blew out a long breath. He turned around and groaned when he saw the rumpled bedcovers. _Thanks, pal,_ he thought bitterly at Oliver. Well, at least he and Laurel hadn't gotten it on in his dad's bed. Armageddon wouldn't begin to describe it. Tommy slumped to the floor between the bed and the chair, which was buried in clothes, some of them clean. He leaned back on the wall, just wanting to give his legs a rest.

His stomach growled, but he didn't want to risk a trip down to the kitchen. He didn't know where he might run into his father, and he really wanted to avoid that for the next year or so. And some idiot had given the servants the whole weekend off, so he couldn't call down and get some food sent up.

His stomach complained. Everyone's a critic.

He sat a while, until he noticed how eerily silent the mansion was. He could be the only one in the huge house. Well, that was nothing new. Even when his father was home, he never really seemed to be here.

Tommy got up and went to the mirror hanging over his desk. In it, he noticed the other mirror, on the bureau, had been tilted down. Instead of showing the room, it showed the disarranged bed. _You dog_ , he thought at his absent friend again. _You dogs in heat!_ He shook his head. Oliver was the lucky one. He had a rich family, his parents were cool, and rarely got on his case. He had a girl who was willing to go steady with him, even when she knew what a prick he could be. He could even pull off that rockstar hair. Tommy had tried it, and he just ended up looking like a girl. He wore his short, but ragged, just to annoy his dad.

He raked a hand through the tousled mess, wincing as he caught a snarl. Did his dad even notice any more? Tommy bit his lip and eyed the door. What were the odds his dad would come looking for him? To have a little talk. Or to chew him out. Or any damned reason.

No, it wasn't likely. His father had just gotten home from a trip, and there wasn't anyone to make him dinner. Hell, he'd probably gone out to eat. It was highly unlikely he would come back while Tommy was stoned. He licked his lips and bounced on the balls of his feet. He peered into the eyes looking back at him in the mirror. Yeah.

He dug under the pile of laundry for his stash. It wouldn't be long. It wouldn't be long before he could regain that euphoria he'd had when he'd been king of the party of the century.

==#==

Malcolm drove himself to Merlyn Global tower. The place was nearly deserted, being a Sunday night on a three-day weekend. Only the security guards were about. He avoided them and went into his private sanctum. The ancient suits of armor regarded him with cold indifference. It wasn't much of a welcome, but it was better than what he'd come home to.

He winced. He'd just wanted to spend a quiet night relaxing. Was that really too much to ask? He passed through the hall of weapons and armor and entered a smaller back room. He peeled off his jacket and shirt, and yes... all that yelling and teenager-herding had aggravated the wound on his stomach, and the bandage was soaked in blood.

He prepared a new dressing before he grabbed a pair of medical shears to cut the bandaging. He peeled off the old dressing and carefully cleaned the eight-inch crescent cut. It wasn't deep, and he'd eschewed stitches, worried enough about the number of scars he'd accrued in his training. This shouldn't have happened. He should have been faster. At least it hadn't killed him.

Malcolm grimaced and packed the cut with a blend of medicinal herbs. They stung. He pressed the dressing hard to his skin and taped it down. That would have to do. Trying to wrap his torso himself would only aggravate the wound.

He took a deep breath, then another, striving to regain his iron-willed control. When he felt a bit calmer, he gingerly put his shirt back on, and the jacket as well, another layer of his modern armor.

Then he contemplated dinner and rest. He could return to the mansion... but no. He might run into Tommy, and he wasn't up to that. He could have a meal out, or even get a burger, then return here to his true sanctuary. It wasn't as if he'd never spent the night at the office before.

Malcolm hadn't been able to pursue his martial training as rigorously as he would have liked to. Between obligations to his business, his son, and his civic group, there just wasn't time. Each of these things was important to him, but it was only the martial arts that were solely for himself.

Next year, Tommy would be finished with high school. His father could only hope he had some kind of aspiration towards college. Maybe he would want to live on campus instead of home, but would he really give up living in a mansion? Either way, college might give Malcolm more time to pursue his own projects.

As for now - Malcolm sighed. He really shouldn't leave Tommy alone at home. Without even a housekeeper or cook, he could end up burning the place down. Malcolm rubbed his face. That wasn't funny. But all right, he could pick up some junk food burgers or chicken on the way home. Would Tommy want some? What was he going to do for dinner? It would be typical if he brought something home and Tommy already had everything planned or taken care of. Then it would look as if Malcolm were condescending to him.

When had this become so complicated?

He could always just call Tommy and ask. So he pulled out his cell when he got back to his car.

There was no answer.

Well, it wasn't the first time his son wouldn't take his calls. Tommy obviously didn't want to talk to him, so Malcolm snapped the phone shut as it started to go to voicemail.

It was a big mansion. Father and son could avoid each other easily within its many halls.

== _X_ ==


	10. Little Boy Blue and the Man in the Moon

**Little Boy Blue and the Man in the Moon**

 _CONTENT:_  
Rating: Teen  
Flavor: Drama  
Language: some  
Violence: some  
Nudity: none  
Sex: no  
Other: none

 _Author's Note:_

This has been sitting in my head for years; glad I finally got around to writing it. Special thanks to Rian Steelsheen for wondering about various things regarding the story and inspiring some exchanges.

* * *

 _Malcolm sighed. He really shouldn't leave Tommy alone at home. Without even a housekeeper or cook, he could end up burning the place down. Malcolm rubbed his face. That wasn't funny. But all right, he could pick up some junk food burgers or chicken on the way home. Would Tommy want some? What was he going to do for dinner? It would be typical if he brought something home and Tommy already had everything planned or taken care of. Then it would look as if Malcolm were condescending to him._

 _When had this become so complicated?_

 _He could always just call Tommy and ask. So he pulled out his cell when he got back to his car._

 _There was no answer._

 _Well, it wasn't the first time his son wouldn't take his calls. Tommy obviously didn't want to talk to him, so Malcolm snapped the phone shut as it started to go to voicemail._

 _It was a big mansion. Father and son could avoid each other easily within its many halls._

* * *

 **Little Boy Blue and the Man in the Moon**

 _(Tommy is 17. Rebecca has been dead 9 years.)_

==#==

Tommy didn't come home.

Malcolm dozed in his chair, the phone close at hand. It was a fitful, restless half sleep, plagued with worry. One night, he'd get a call from the hospital, or worse, the police, sadly informing him that his son had been in a horrific accident, that Tommy had finally managed to kill himself.

There was nothing Malcolm could do to prevent this. No therapy, not counseling. Parental guidance? That was a joke.

He could _beg_ Tommy not to do this, and his son would just look at him with cold, accusing eyes.

Sometimes, he had nightmares of answering the phone and listening to Tommy gasp his life out in a bloody car wreck, begging for help that Malcolm couldn't give. Sometimes it was worse, and he'd dream of waking up in the morning, and only hearing his son's final words on a voicemail recording, while he'd remained oblivious that his boy was dying.

How could he lose someone so close to him and not even _know?_ Something so momentous, so final, should be felt, not pass by unheralded like some trivial mundane event.

The phone rang, the real one, and Malcolm shot upright, his body tensing, his heart pounding. He took a breath and thumbed the handset. "Hello?"

" _Mr. Merlyn? Your son is here at Precinct 12._ "

"Is he hurt?"

" _He was wearing his seatbelt._ "

Malcolm closed his eyes. _Thank God._ "I'll be there as soon as possible."

It wouldn't take long. He was already dressed, after all. It just took a moment to straighten himself up, grab his suit jacket. Now he could look as respectable as possible while picking up his slobbering drunk child.

==#==

Malcolm had the sign-out routine down pat. He kept his expression neutral, closed, while the officer with the disapproving scowl steered Tommy out of lockup.

"Heyyy, Dad," Tommy slurred, leaning precariously close to falling on his escort. "So good to see you again." A big cheesy grin lit up his face.

The officer shoved Tommy at Malcolm, and Tommy caught himself by clutching Malcolm's sleeve. "No need to be so _pushy_ ," the inebriated teen chided, then broke into uncontrollable giggles.

"Let's go."

"Heyyyy... Pushy, pushy... everybody should jus' lighten up!"

Malcolm grabbed his arm and forcibly guided him outside. He just about man-handled Tommy down the steps, because it was clear the boy couldn't navigate them safely on his own. "Get in the car." Malcolm shoved Tommy at the passenger door, and turned when he heard his name called.

"What? No limo?" Tommy groped for the handle.

Malcolm walked back to be met by Officer Riley, who was outside on a cigarette break. "He's a handful," Riley said in a mild tone. He passed Malcolm a small plastic bag containing a handful of pills.

"Thank you, Riley. You'll see your bonus by Thursday."

"Any time, Mr. Merlyn."

Malcolm pocketed the contraband without a second glance, but he was seething inside.

Tommy lolled in the passenger seat; Malcolm wasn't even sure he was conscious. He gripped the wheel; he gritted his teeth. He drove them home.

When the car was safely parked in the driveway, Malcolm turned and hit Tommy on the arm, a bit more forcefully than he meant to, but it succeeded in waking the teenager.

"Ow! What the fuck?"

"Get out of the car," Malcolm snapped. He released his seatbelt and exited the BMW.

"Get in the car, get out of the car," Tommy whined as he fumbled his own way clear. "Just always tell me what to fucking do." He staggered around the car, leaning on the hood, then pushed off towards the front door. "Thanks for the ride, 'Dad,'" he sneered with a jaunty wave. "Seeya."

"Tommy, I'm not finish- _Tommy!_ " Malcolm grabbed his arm, jerked him back around. With his other hand, he waved the baggie in Tommy's face. "What the hell is this?"

"Hey, my stash." Tommy smiled at the bag as if it were his best friend. He made a clumsy grab for it, but Malcolm held it out of reach.

"Tommy, you are shit-faced drunk, or wasted, or _both_ ," Malcolm yelled. "You wrecked your car-"

"Well, we know which you care about more," Tommy mumbled.

Malcolm stopped, aghast. "You could have been _killed!_ " he screamed at the disaffected youth.

"Like you care?" Tommy yelled back. "All you care about are my grades! You don't give a fuck about _me!_ Well, there's all my straight A's right there in that bag, so if you want to keep your honor student son, you'll hand them over!"

"You've been... doing drugs to get your grades up?" It was insane. The last vestiges of Malcolm's pride in his son shattered. It had been nothing but an artificially-induced sham.

"You should be happy. Isn't that what made you happy?"

"You are ruining your life with this shit!" Malcolm tried to hammer the words through Tommy's thick skull.

"Who cares?"

" _I_ care!"

"Sure you do."

Why couldn't Tommy see it? What else could he do or say? Malcolm crushed the baggie in his fist. "No more, Tommy! I won't stand by and let you ruin your life. I'm going to clear all this filth out of your room, and you will straighten up-!"

"You can't do that!" Tommy's eyes flared. "It's _my_ room!"

"Which is under _my_ roof! And while you live here, you will abide by _my_ rules!"

"Fuck your rules! And fuck your pompous, over-bearing shit!"

"Watch your filthy mouth! It's a good thing your mother isn't here - she'd hate this disgusting thing you've become!"

The hateful words echoed in the night. Tommy stood, mouth slightly agape. Malcolm might have felt ashamed, but it seemed to be the only way to get through to him.

Then, Tommy moved. Malcolm should have seen it coming; his training should have kicked in, but he was frozen in shock as Tommy's fist slammed into his face. He turned with the impact and caught himself on the side of the car.

"You shut up about Mom!" Tommy yelled, his voice thick with welling tears. He turned and trudged down the driveway, reaching into his jacket pocket.

Malcolm leaned against the car, still stunned. Slowly, he straightened. He gingerly touched his stinging lip, and his finger came away with a spot of blood.

He turned and stared after Tommy.

 _He hit me._

He couldn't move; his mind refused to think. Tommy disappeared around the bend.

 _He hit me._

The tingling in his cheek intensified to a throbbing pain. Unconsciously, his hand slide to cover it.

Then Malcolm got ahold of himself. With a scowl, he bent and picked up the pills he'd dropped when... He glanced once more down the driveway, but no. He wouldn't go after his son.

He went into the house and straight to Tommy's room. This would be easier with him gone.

==#==

The phone buzzed again. Laurel pulled her lips from Oliver's. "You know," she mumbled between his attempts at recapturing her mouth. "That's really starting to kill the mood."

"They'll give up," Oliver insisted.

The phone buzzed again, and Laurel shoved Ollie's hands out of her shirt.

"Ohhh...!" He groaned and reached down to grope on the floor for the phone lost somewhere in his jacket pocket. "What?" he barked into it grumpily.

Then he sat up straight, his eyes going unfocused as he listened. "Where are you? ...I'll be right there." He closed the flip phone. "I gotta go," he told her.

"Go?" Laurel shrugged a bra strap back into place. "Go where?"

Oliver stood, grabbing his jacket. "Tommy's dad just kicked him out."

"Oh my God."

Oliver stopped, one arm in a sleeve, and he bent to kiss her. "Sorry, babe."

"No, not; that's fine. Of course you have to go." She uncurled her legs as she stood. Tommy was Ollie's best friend, and he was a good guy. Ollie, too, was a good guy, despite his efforts at being a bad boy.

Laurel retrieved her own jacket, hanging neatly on the back of the door. She shrugged into it, flipped her hair out, shouldered her purse. She followed Ollie out, her mind on her worries for Tommy.

She didn't know his dad well; he seemed a more distant sort of parent than Oliver's mom and dad. Tommy complained about him so often, Laurel had wondered if the police shouldn't actually get involved.

She'd mentioned it to her dad, who'd listened thoughtfully, asked a few clarifying questions, then had this bit of wisdom to impart:

"Sweetheart, you only hear one side of the story, and only the bits this kid Tommy wants to gripe about. I'm sure," he'd said, giving her a pointed look, "you've complained a time or three about what a terrible ogre your old man is. That's normal, honey. Rich kids like Merlyn and Queen don't know when they got it so good."

But Mr. Merlyn actually kicking Tommy out? It's lucky Tommy had such a good friend like Ollie.

==#==

Tommy trudged down the side of the road, his head down, his shoulders slumped, hands shoved deep in his pockets. He'd puked a few yards back, now he was feeling a lot more sober. He didn't cry. That was stupid. Stupid that his fucking father would talk such fucking bullshit. Fuck that, Malcolm didn't deserve any of Tommy's feelings, not even hurt. Barely even anger. Fuck it all. Tommy wouldn't care.

He squinted as some headlights swept around a bend towards him. They slowed, stopped a bit past him, then Oliver's voice came out of the blackness behind them. "Tommy?"

Tommy crossed the road and got into the car.

"What were you doing? Trying to walk to my house?" Oliver joked.

"If need be," he replied in a steel tone.

His friend instantly sobered. "You wouldn't have to. I'm here for you, man." Ollie put the car in gear and started a three point turn maneuver with more points. "I'll always be there when you need me."

"Thanks," Tommy said, before his throat closed. He put a hand to his forehead, not his eyes; he was _not_ crying like some baby. He turned towards the window, not that Oliver could see, in the darkness.

"So what happened?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"'Kay."

Tommy fumed silently to himself, trying to dry his stupid, useless tears with the heat of rage.

He blamed his father for everything. Every mistake, every absence, every misstep. Sometimes, guiltily, he wondered what it'd be like if it had been his father who'd died that night. He and Mom would have carried on, wouldn't they? Become closer, a stronger family. She wouldn't have become some distant mountain that Tommy could never reach, no matter how loudly he shouted.

His father could die now.

 _No!_

Despite everything, he didn't want his father gone, he didn't want to leave, to run away. All he wanted was his father back! The one he'd lost when his mom died. Despite the years that had passed, the distance they'd come, inside he was still just a little boy whose father meant the world to him. A friend, a teacher, a protector. The man a boy could count on to share his laughter, to banish his tears. To be there in the dead of night when the nightmares came.

Tommy loved his dad.

Had loved his dad.

 _Wanted_ to love his dad.

He swiped at his face. He was drunk, and it was making him maudlin. The stone silence didn't help. "I wrecked the car again," he mentioned to Ollie.

"Shit, Tommy!"

"Dad got my stash. He's gonna toss my room. Shiiiiiit..." He rubbed his face. "I'm so fucked."

"You can crash at my place as long as you need," Oliver said. "We've got plenty of room."

"Thanks, man. You're..." Tommy pushed through before he choked up again. "You're a good friend."

==#==

Mr. Merlyn was downstairs in the study, talking with Oliver's dad. Oliver wished he could hear them from the landing. As it was, he only caught the tail end of Mr. Merlyn telling his dad something about Tommy being in trouble again. He didn't even sound angry or upset, just... cold. Deadly. Oliver shuddered inside.

He calculated the odds of getting caught if he crept downstairs and listened at the door. Not good. Then the voices stopped and Oliver stood up straight, acting casual.

Robert and Malcolm came into view in the foyer; Robert turned. "Oliver! Oh, there you are."

Oliver feigned surprise. "Yeah, Dad?"

"Could you tell Tommy to come down?"

He started to move automatically but then locked his knees. "No."

"What?"

"What if he doesn't want to?" Oliver had stood up for Tommy - against bullies, against teachers, anyone who tried to trash talk his friend. Now maybe it was time to stand up for Tommy against his father. Hadn't this gone far enough?

Malcolm gave him a stern glare, but all he said was, "Oliver, please." There was a haunted air about his face, his frame, like a man battling illness. And was that a bruise on his cheek?

Robert said quietly to Malcolm, "Let me talk to the boy." He started up the stairs.

Oliver fell into step beside him. "But Dad-"

"Son, I know you want to help your friend, and that's commendable."

"What about what Tommy wants? He has rights!" His father wasn't listening, only continuing on stubbornly.

"Dad, how can you do this? You don't know what's been going on over there."

"You don't, either," Robert shot back. "You only know one side of the story. How many times do you complain to your friends about your parents?"

"I don't," Oliver said. It was mostly true. His dad wasn't an ogre like Tommy's dad.

At the top of the stairs, Robert turned to face him. "Ollie, no one should come between a man and his son."

He opened his mouth to begin a protest, but no words came out. Looking into his father's eyes, he could feel their bond. He turned away.

"Let me talk to Tommy alone for a minute." Robert continued on down the hall and Oliver stood there at a loss. What kind of friend was he?

He turned and descended the stairs, to run away, out the door, so he didn't have to be here, witness to his failure. But he checked his headlong flight. He wouldn't be a coward.

Which led him to end up standing in the foyer with Mr. Merlyn. Oliver shot him a glare, almost daring him to say something, to start an argument.

For a moment, the man regarded him and his hostility, then looked down at his own clasped hands. He was not going to make the first move, then.

Oliver took the opportunity to study Mr. Merlyn's profile. Was that guilt? His expression was closed, hard to read. That was definitely a bruise on his face, and Oliver tried to figure out how the hell it got there. Mr. Merlyn was a straight-laced suit-and-tie kinda guy. He didn't go around getting into fistfights.

"Why did you kick Tommy out?" he blurted suddenly.

Mr. Merlyn turned, looked up at him, his brow furrowed. "What?"

"If you wanted him out of your house, why are you so eager to come here and get him?"

"Oliver, I did not kick Tommy out."

"He said you did." Oliver folded his arms.

Mr. Merlyn restrained a sigh. "I'm sure that's what he told you, but the fact is, he got angry and walked out."

Now Oliver stared down at the floor, chewing his lip with a frown. It wasn't that he didn't believe his friend, but he had to admit that exaggeration may have played a part in Tommy's story. Perhaps a great many of his stories.

Damn, Oliver hated when his dad was right.

Mr. Merlyn continued. "I know you might not believe this - Lord knows, Tommy doesn't - but I only want what is best for him. If you were a true friend, you'd want that too."

"I am," Oliver insisted, burned by the implication he wasn't.

"These drugs Tommy is on. They're not good for him. Being young and reckless and 'partying' is one thing, Oliver." Mr. Merlyn looked at him with those deep, chilling eyes. "Addiction is another thing entirely."

Oliver looked away. He didn't confess anything; he wasn't that dumb. And what could he have done? He badgered Tommy about the pills, but who was he to say what someone should or shouldn't do with their own life? He wasn't Tommy's father.

Oh. Now he began to understand what his dad had meant. Feeling disloyal, he kept his gaze on the floor.

==#==

"Tommy?" Robert knocked on the door and waited for an acknowledgement. He didn't want to walk in on anything embarrassing - or worse, something that would require intervention and discipline. He wanted to talk to the boy as a friend, not as an authority figure. "Tommy?"

With reluctance, the door opened. Tommy looked like hell, hair disheveled, t-shirt rumpled, a pair of Ollie's sweatpants thrown on. "Hey, Mr. Queen."

"Tommy, your dad's here."

Tommy sighed. "What does he want?"

"He wants to take you home."

Bitterness twisted the boy's lips. He seemed eager to say something, but not sure what.

Robert sympathized. "Why don't you let me in? We can talk while you get ready."

"Yeah, okay." Tommy vacated the door and headed for the en suite bathroom, making detours along the way to grab his pants, his socks.

Robert looked for a chair to sit in... he was fairly certain there was one under all the mess. With a shrug, he sat on the edge of the bed. "I understand you and your dad got into it pretty bad last night."

"Yeah, what'd he tell you?" Water ran in the sink.

"Well, he said you got drunk, wrecked your car, had drugs on you, and then you got into an argument and you hit him."

The water kept running.

"Was any of that inaccurate?" Robert asked, staying with a mild tone.

"Not... Well..." Tommy's voice faded. "No."

"I know you and your father don't see eye to eye, but he loves you, Tommy."

The water cut off with a protesting squeak from the faucet. "How can you tell?"

"He tells me so."

"Yeah, he tells me that, too. But I don't see it."

Robert pursed his lips and looked at the floor. "He cares, Tommy. He cares how you feel, how you do in life. He cares about your future."

"We never do anything. We never talk. He's never there."

"I didn't say he was perfect. Far from it. But believe me, if he didn't care about you, you'd be a lot worse off."

"How so?" Tommy asked defiantly.

"Your grades would suck, you'd be failing school - if you even bothered to go. You'd be drunk and landing in jail. Killing yourself before you reach 20." Robert didn't know how to explain life from this side of adulthood. Then he said, "I know your dad hasn't been the greatest, but he tries, and he _is_ there for you when you need him. He had a hard time of it when your mother died."

"Yeah, well he forgot there were two of us in that boat," Tommy said bitterly.

"I think maybe _you_ forget that," Robert shot back. "Malcolm took it on himself to raise you by himself. And you know how stubborn he is about asking for help."

"He asked for help?"

That startled a chuckle out of Robert. "Of course he didn't. But he and I talk about raising our boys. You know, sometimes I think if the two of you could just sit down and talk..."

"I talk, he yells. And lectures."

Robert sighed. "I'll talk to him."

"About what?"asked Tommy with a tinge of panic.

"About being a better listener. Can you at least give your old man a chance?"

The answer as a long time coming.

"I guess."

==#==

Tommy followed Mr. Queen downstairs. He kept his eyes on his feet. He didn't notice Oliver was there until they got down to the level of the foyer.

Mr. Queen said, "Ollie, why don't you walk Tommy to the car while I have a word with Malcolm?"

Tommy glanced at his dad. He saw the bruise. _Shit! I'm in a shit-ton of trouble!_ He hurried out after Oliver, and the two teens trudged towards the BMW.

Ollie didn't say anything.

Tommy was too caught up in his own worries to notice right away. But it wasn't like his friend to keep his mouth shut. "What'd my dad say to you?" he asked in sudden trepidation.

"Nothin'."

Good, then Ollie didn't know what Tommy had done. Tommy hardly believed it himself; it seemed like something from a half-forgotten nightmare.

 _This is fucked up. I... I fucked up._ For once, Tommy was in trouble, and he owned that it was completely his fault. He had to face it. He swallowed.

"Well, hey, I gotta go," he said when his father came out the door. "I'll see ya."

"Seeya, man."

Tommy got in the car, waited with clenched fists for his father to get in and start it up. The elder Merlyn said nothing, showed no emotion. Was his father going to say something? He usually waited until they were well under way, no chance of his son bailing out of the car, Tommy thought with black humor.

He decided to man up and make the first move. "Dad..." He tried to swallow, his mouth suddenly gone dry. "Dad, I'm sorry. I was drunk and... It was stupid, and... I'm really sorry. I didn't mean it."

His words ran out, dried to dust. His father drove on in silence. Tommy wondered what else he could say, but finally, Malcolm answered him.

"I know," was all he said.

Tommy sank into his seat, feeling cold.

== _X_ ==


	11. Crippled

**Crippled**

 _CONTENT:_  
Rating: Teen  
Flavor: Drama  
Language: some  
Violence: yelling  
Nudity: none  
Sex: none  
Other: none

 _Author's Note:_

We come to the inevitable conclusion of our story. Thank you for coming along for the ride.

* * *

 _Robert looked for a chair to sit in... he was fairly certain there was one under all the mess. With a shrug, he sat on the edge of the bed. "I understand you and your dad got into it pretty bad last night."_

 _"Yeah, what'd he tell you?" Water ran in the sink._

 _"Well, he said you got drunk, wrecked your car, had drugs on you, and then you got into an argument and you hit him."_

 _The water kept running._

 _"Was any of that inaccurate?" Robert asked, staying with a mild tone._

 _"Not... Well..." Tommy's voice faded. "No."_

 _"I know you and your father don't see eye to eye, but he loves you, Tommy."_

* * *

 **Crippled**

 _(Tommy is 17. Rebecca has been dead 9 years.)_

==#==

Malcolm had already packed Tommy's bags. He didn't want any argument, any drama. He was done with it all. Tommy was going to rehab.

Tommy, of course, hated the idea. What about school? What about his friends? What about graduation? What about 'fair,' which is the word he used all the time when he wanted to get his own way. Well, he should've thought of all that before ending up like this. This was the only way.

They pulled into a parking space facing the rehab center. Malcolm turned off the engine, and they sat in silence a moment.

Tommy glared out the window. Then he said, "I turn 18 in a few weeks. Then I'm going to walk."

"Please, Tommy, work with the counselors. I want your life to be so much more."

"Well, I want my life for myself. I don't want to be what you want me to be."

Frustrated, Malcolm snapped, "You want to be a junkie? Because that is where you're heading. For God's sake, Tommy, you've been doing drugs since you were 13!"

"You weren't complaining when the meth brought my grades up."

"Drugs are just a crutch," Malcolm explained, trying to keep the tone civil. "I want you to be strong on your own."

"Well, some people are crippled," Tommy said, his angry stare boring into his father now. "If you take their crutches away, they can't do shit."

"And some people can go to rehab and learn to walk again!" That shut down that argument. Tommy looked away again. Malcolm tried to rein in the years' worth of frustrations with his son. "Listen, Tommy... you can be anything you want to be, a musician, or a writer if you want; it doesn't have to be a business major or a lawyer or a doctor. I won't ask anything from you, Tommy, but just this one thing." All his hope hinged on this. "Please, don't waste your life pursuing chemical happiness, wrecking your body, destroying your mind, and then dying young, choking on your own vomit. I couldn't survive losing you that way."

He stared at the steering wheel, feeling his control slipping. What if Tommy just used that against him? When would he see that he was hurting himself in an effort to hurt his father?

Tommy remained mute, staring out the windshield a minute or two. Then, without a word, he got out, grabbed his bag, and headed to the rehab entrance.

Malcolm, knowing he was not welcome, did not follow. Only his prayers went with his son.

==#==

Tommy made good on his threat. He turned 18, and the money in his first trust fund was legally his, to manage and use or abuse as he saw fit. He got a real estate agent to score him a sweet downtown apartment. He signed himself out of rehab, a full adult now. He made it to his high school graduation, with some bullshit story about studying in the Amazon rainforest for a few weeks.

College opened a new vista for party opportunities, chicks, drugs - anything and everything he wanted. The pool full of beer was child's play!. He and Oliver ran wild, becoming the darlings of the paparazzi and the bane of their families. A team of naked cheerleaders? No problem! Renting a stadium to host an orgy on the end zone? A weekend entertainment. Wrecking cars and breaking hearts, that was Tommy Merlyn.

He sat in his leather couch, two up-and-coming models on either side of him, feeding him caviar and cheese wedges as he sipped champagne. A smile stretched across his face, and he raised his glass in a silent salute to his father.

Oh yes, the best revenge was living well!

== _X_ ==


End file.
